


Dona Nobis Pacem

by thegraytigress



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Drama, Established Relationship, Homophobic Language, Hurt Steve Rogers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Two Broken Super Soldiers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-21
Updated: 2017-05-21
Packaged: 2018-11-02 20:58:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 65,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10952607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegraytigress/pseuds/thegraytigress
Summary: "This job...  We try to save as many people as we can.  Sometimes it doesn't mean everybody, but if we can't find a way to live with that...  Next time maybe nobody gets saved."An incident on the battlefield exposes how much Steve's falling apart under the crushing weight of leading the Avengers after Sokovia.  Now Bucky's adopting a new mission: save Steve before he destroys himself completely, even if it means the end of Captain America.Part of the Captain America Reverse Big Bang 2017.





	Dona Nobis Pacem

**Author's Note:**

> **DISCLAIMER:** _The Avengers: Age of Ultron_ , _Captain America: The Winter Soldier_ , and _Captain America: Civil War_ are the properties of Walt Disney Studios, Paramount Studios, and Marvel Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.
> 
>  **RATING:** E (for language, violence, sexual content, adult situations)
> 
>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Here is my Captain America RBB. I really enjoyed working with [MMcClaren](http://meredithmcclaren.tumblr.com), who created some fantastic art that drew me in right away. It's been a blast to write this! Also thanks to [Winterstar](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Winterstar/pseuds/Winterstar) for her guidance and support, and thanks to [junker5](http://junker5.tumblr.com) for doing a beta-read on this not-so-little fic. Very appreciated!
> 
> So this is kinda sorta a rewrite of _Civil War_ with more Stucky, more feels, and less fighting. I know that CW can be a hot-button topic. I tried to give all sides of this a fair shake, and those of you who read my works on the regular know that I love Tony and Natasha a great deal. However, this story is from Bucky's POV, and thus his perceptions dominate the narrative. That doesn't mean I'm anti-Team Iron Man or anti-Tony at all (in fact, I think they all come to a pretty good understanding here). Still, bear that in mind.
> 
> Also, there are a couple of scenes in the beginning of the fic that I am going to stick a very, _very_ small dubcon warning on. It's so minor I am not tagging it. Steve and Bucky are in a loving, established relationship in this fic, but they have issues they're both working through, and there's a spot or two where Steve is not in a particularly good headspace while they have sex. Bucky can't read his mind, and he doesn't realize what's happening until after. I don't want to upset anyone, so bear that in mind. In addition, Crossbones is an asshole, and he uses some pretty nasty homophobic language against Steve (so does Ross, and he's also an asshole). And bear the rest of the tags in mind. This story has a lot to do with chronic, untreated super-hero PTSD.
> 
> Alright, enjoy!

Bucky bursts through the doors of the medical ward in the Avengers complex.  There’s barely controlled chaos inside, a frenzy that borders on panic and pandemonium.  Doctors and nurses rush about.  People are shouting.  The noise is deafening.  The frantic pulse of activity matches the wild racing of Bucky’s heart.  He glances about uselessly for a moment, not really sure where to go or what to do.  He’s never come here like this before.

Because the team’s never failed like this before.

And he’s standing there like a fucking useless statue.  He’s absolutely frozen in place, watching the fast-paced pandemonium with wide eyes and an empty head.  His ineptness pisses him off something fierce.  This is how things are now.  The more he recovers from what HYDRA did to him, the more he realizes how much further he has yet to go to _be_ something again.  To be someone.  Someone who feels again, who understands what his emotions mean, who knows what to do with them.  Someone who trusts and is trusted.  Someone who’s more than the weapon into which Zola and seventy years of torture and brainwashing turned him.  Someone who’s a _good_ person, who has a strong heart and a sense of responsibility and duty, who cares about other people.

Someone good enough to love Steve Rogers.

That’s why he’s here, why he raced down from their suite the second the Avengers’ quinjet landed after its harried flight from India.  The team went there earlier that afternoon after reports of a violent militant faction breaking into a research facility in Chennai.  The terrorists were looking to steal some sort of bioweapon being studied there, a variant of anthrax that’s airborne and easily spread.  In a city so huge, the death toll would have been catastrophic if the disease was unleashed.  The team went in and put down the threat, but it was obvious from the get-go that the battle was not going well, at least according to what Bucky heard.  The facility was located in an extremely densely populated area, so the risk of civilian casualties was high, and these bastards weren’t at all shy about using innocents as shields and convenient distractions.  Still, the Avengers avoided any major loss of life, and the only casualties are their own.

 _Steve._   Bucky snatches the arm of a passing nurse.  “Where’s Captain America?” he demands.

She just stares at him, shocked and horrified once she sees the metal fingers around her wrist and recognizes who he is.  That happens a lot now, too.  People hear the rumors that he’s been recovering here at the Avengers’ facility in upstate New York, but somehow it still takes them aback to actually _see_ him.  He supposes that makes sense.  No matter how much better he gets, how well his mind heals and how much he adjusts and how completely Wanda and Vision eradicate HYDRA’s programming from the dark places inside him, he’s always going to be the Winter Soldier.  HYDRA’s legendary assassin.  Their strong arm, their loaded rifle, their _asset._   He can’t change that.  Only a few know him as James Barnes, but he’s not quite sure he’s that, either.  He’s whoever he is now, with a metal arm he hates sometimes and shoulder-length brown hair that’s perpetually unkempt and stubble he’s often too depressed to shave and a face he doesn’t always recognize.  He’s pretty sure James Barnes – that young, strapping, charming sergeant in the 107th infantry who fell from a train in the Swiss Alps in 1945 and whose face is plastered all over some museum in Washington, DC – died seventy years ago.  James Barnes is not coming back, no matter how much he heals and how deeply the others dig in his mind to undo HYDRA’s control.  James Barnes in gone.

But Bucky, Steve’s Bucky…  Well, he can be him.  Steve’s Bucky is someone worthwhile.  And Steve’s Bucky would fucking keep his shit together and not scare this poor young woman any further, so he takes a deep breath, calms himself, and lets go of her arm.  “Where is he?”

“Through there,” she says, and Bucky takes off in a run, rushing through the set of doors to which she gestured. 

Things are just as crazy in this next room, only now he spots a familiar face in the crowd.  “Sam!”

Sam jerks away from the nurse trying to clean the array of cuts on his face.  They look like they were caused by glass exploding or something like that, like he was too close to a window that shattered.  The second his compassionate brown eyes meet Bucky’s, he’s hopping off the exam bed on which he was sitting and limping over.  “Easy, man,” he comforts, raising his hands to slow Bucky’s approach.  He seems haggard and frightened, and that more than anything gets Bucky even more upset.  Bucky’s known Sam for months now, ever since Sam and Steve found him in his shithole apartment in Bucharest where he was trying to survive in the wake of HYDRA’s destruction.  Sam’s a really good friend of Steve’s, more a brother than a friend to the point, and Bucky doesn’t begrudge that.  As he’s recovered more and reclaimed autonomy and perspective, he’s realized that Sam’s a damn decent man.  He’s stood by Steve, taken care of him during Steve’s crazier and lonelier moments, protected him no matter what.  There’s a bond there that Bucky appreciates (and even envies from time to time, when he’s strong enough to admit it to himself).  Sure, he and Sam don’t always see eye to eye, but he knows Sam will follow Steve to the ends of the earth, sacrifice _anything_ to see Steve safe and well.  Bucky knows Steve would do the same for Sam.

Sam’s just about the least flighty person Bucky’s ever met, too.  He’s level-headed with a good sense of humor.  He’s calm and he’s cool, strong and brave and sassy when he needs to be, and he doesn’t take shit from anyone.  If Sam’s upset, there’s truly something worth being upset about.  “Where is he?” Bucky breathlessly asks, trying to hold onto his composure.

“He’s fine,” Sam assures.  He’s trying, but he doesn’t sound sure of what he’s saying.

Bucky picks up on that right away.  “But Hill told me he went down–”

The pain on Sam’s face is sharp and disturbing.  “It wasn’t him.  It was such a fucking mess that they had it wrong on comms.”

Relief leaves Bucky shaking.  He kind of wants to puke.  Fuck, he was so goddamn _scared._   The second he heard that Steve was hurt…  The world just condensed in a way it hasn’t ever (at least, not in seventy years – this whole haze of thrumming panic feels vaguely familiar, like he knows he’s experienced it before but he can’t yet remember the exact context).  He’s struggling to breathe with the way his throat’s tight and his chest’s hurting.  “It wasn’t him.  Holy fuck.  It wasn’t…”

Then it occurs to him.  “Shit, Sam.  Who is it?”  He glances around frantically, like he’s suddenly remembering there’s all this activity around them.  He can’t see anyone else.  “Is it Natasha?”

“No,” Sam says quickly, shaking his head.  “No, she’s fine–”

“Rhodes.”

Sam shakes his head again.  It wouldn’t be Vision; Bucky’s not even sure Vision can be wounded or that, if he ever is, he’ll be brought here.  Dawning realization leaves him deflating anew.  “Ah, hell.  Wanda?”

Again, the pained expression on Sam’s face is all the answer Bucky needs.  He turns on his heel and rushes deeper into the facility, pushing past more people.  He vaguely notices he’s heading towards the surgical area.  Sam’s following; the nurse tending to him is shouting futilely after him.  “Bucky, wait.  Wait!”

“How bad is it?” Bucky asks.

“I don’t know!  Steve came back with her.  He was with her when–”

“Is she okay?”  Surprisingly knowing that it’s not Steve who’s hurt isn’t making the pain any better.  It’s just changing, maybe a little duller but not any less frightening.  They rush through another set of doors, the sleek, glass panes opening just barely fast enough for Bucky’s barreling gait.  “Is she…”

Steve’s right there.  He’s outside the operating room, sitting on a bench with his helmet next to him and his shield on the floor beside him and an empty, bloody gurney next to that.  He’s bent forward, elbows braced on his knees and hands dangling uselessly.  There’s blood and dirt all over him, the dark blue of his uniform stained purple and black.  His lip is split and sore.  Bruises litter his face, red and angry, and his left eye is nearly swollen shut.  _Christ._   Bucky knows _exactly_ how hard someone has to hit Steve for him to bruise at all, let alone bruise like that.  He knows because he did it, the Winter Soldier did it, over and over again on a helicarrier falling out of the sky.  Seeing Steve busted up like this brings the terrible memories surging out of the quiet places in his head, the flashback surging against the cages Wanda’s built for him.  There’s muscle memory even in his fake arm, and he clenches his metal fingers into a fist involuntarily before sucking in a deeper breath to stay calm, to keep himself in control.  “Steve?”

Steve doesn’t respond at first.  His blue eyes are glazed.  It’s that look.  _The thousand-yard stare._   A blank, senseless stupor.  Bucky’s seen it before plenty of times.  His memories of the war are really spotty, much more so at this point than his memories of their life and relationship in Brooklyn before it.  Wanda often tells him that the trauma associated with battle makes it even harder for those recollections to reform in his head, that his own self-defense mechanisms have worked to dim and repress them naturally.  That’s probably true, but Bucky knows that stare.  On the faces of other soldiers as they march back to base after a rough fight or collapse after a long day, their weary eyes empty and their expressions lax like they’re a million miles away.  They’re lost up in a numb, deadened state where the mind and body have been pushed beyond their limits.  Where the pain and fear have become so heavy that complete detachment from reality is the only answer.  He saw it back then, and he’s seen it now on his own face in the mirror sometimes after a particularly harsh nightmare or flashback.  It’s a veritable window to a damaged soul.

But he’s never seen it on Steve before.  Despite the holes in his past, he remembers Steve being this stalwart, unwavering _force_ during the war.  Steve always stood strong, always had a plan, always pushed on with a comforting word and a smile on his face and light in his eyes.  Steve always knew what to do next, how to carry on even when the odds were stacked against them and victory seemed impossible.  And, yeah, sometimes Bucky has a hard time reconciling this new Steve with the one he remembers from his life before (the mix-up with the serum notwithstanding.  Needless to say, his memories don’t come back all nicely in order, which is annoying and confusing as hell sometimes).  However, _this_ seems constant.  _Captain America._   That’s one of the first and strongest connections he made from the crazy world around him to the life he used to have.  Captain America’s shield.  Captain America’s star on his chest.  Captain America protecting innocents and fighting evil and being a symbol to all of bravery, nobility, and self-sacrifice.  And Captain America leads the Avengers in 2016 the same way he led the Howling Commandos in 1944, all cool confidence and tactical perfection and undaunted determination.  Captain America always seemed then and still seems now like he’s above it all.

Clearly he’s not.  “Steve?” Bucky calls again, the worry tightening up even more inside him.  He takes a few steps closer, but he has to admit that he’s scared.  More than scared.  Fucking _terrified._   “Steve…”

Sam’s more comfortable with a situation like this, of course, so it’s Sam who finally crosses the gleaming tiled floor and grasps Steve’s shoulder.  Despite the fact that he’s clearly nursing some seriously bruised ribs, Sam crouches in front of his friend.  “Hey, Steve.  You okay?”

It actually takes Steve a couple more seconds to snap out of it and focus.  Sam waits patiently, staying right where he is to be at Steve’s level.  He rubs Steve’s shoulder gently until Steve slumps a little and blinks a few times.  He turns and meets Sam’s gaze.  “Sam?”  His voice is little more than a broken whisper.

“Yeah,” Sam says.  “Are you okay?”

Steve suddenly stands up, like he’s coming back to himself and realizing where he is and what happened.  Bucky desperately wants to go to him, make sure he’s fine, but he doesn’t.  He’s rooted in place, out of his mind with shock and worry even as Steve rapidly gets his bearings with a breath and blink and looks right at him.  “Yeah!  Yeah, I’m fine.  I’m fine.”  He tries to smile and fails miserably.  “You didn’t need to come down, Buck.”

Bucky’s modicum of restraint snaps, and he’s across the way to cup Steve’s face in a flash.  “Like hell I didn’t!  Last I heard you were shot.”  He’s checking again, even though it’s pretty obvious Steve wasn’t.  There’s blood on his uniform, a lot he sees now that Steve’s standing.  The whole middle of his torso is stained crimson, but there’s no hole in the fabric and the blood is dry.  “They said you were–”

“It’s Wanda,” Steve says, and his voice cracks.  He visibly gathers himself, pulling away from Bucky’s hands and wiping at his face like that’s going to hide the wetness in his eyes.  “She, um…  They were going to blow the building.”  Vaguely Bucky knows that.  He’s not permitted to watch the battle, not allowed anywhere near the command center in fact, but Hill keeps him updated as she sees fit.  He knows the terrorists got the upper hand in the research installation, that Steve sent Natasha, Sam, and Rhodey to evacuate as many people from the streets around them while Vision, Wanda, and he tried to contend with the explosives they didn’t realize were in play until too late.  “Vision neutralized most of the bombs, but the one near Wanda and me…  That went off.”  That was when Steve’s comm line went dead from what Bucky heard.  Steve looks sick, but he’s trying hard not to.  “She handled the blast, kept it contained and redirected it away from the anthrax, but…  The bastards were all over us.  There were too many of them, and I couldn’t keep them all off her while she was…”

“It’s not your fault,” Sam is quick to say.

Steve’s eyes flash.  “The hell it’s not.  We’ve practiced scenarios like this!  We should have been ready!  _I_ should have been ready!  Something gets out of control, an explosion or civilians in the crossfire or anything that endangers lives like this, and she contains it.  We protect her.  That’s the plan.”  His jaw clenches, and Bucky can practically see him blaming himself.  “I couldn’t do that.  She was vulnerable and distracted and I couldn’t…”

Bucky glances at Sam.  There are times when he knows things about Steve but he can’t say how or why, like the feelings have been split from the memories, facts, and details.  Like Steve’s tendencies to take the world on his shoulders, to bear everyone’s burdens without a thought as to sharing his own.  He feels like he’s lived a life of watching Steve do that and hated every second of it, but at the same time it seems weirdly new and foreign and he doesn’t know how to handle it.  He should know how to.  This is one more thing that’s missing in his life, a gap where he knows there should be something important but it’s empty and distressing.

Sam knows, though.  “You did the best you could,” he says.  It’s not just placating bullshit.  He means it.

Steve’s not placated either way.  He shakes his head, staring at the sealed doors that lead to the operating room, steel-jawed and rigid.  “Shouldn’t have happened,” he argues, more to himself than to either of them.  “ _Never_ should have happened.”  He seems like he wants to say more, explain something, but he doesn’t.  This is another of Steve’s tendencies, to hold himself to impossible standards when it comes to protecting others.  Bucky has a better sense of that, of little Stevie Rogers lamenting that he couldn’t do more to stop the bullies from harassing the other kids as Bucky helps him limp home with a busted-up nose and sore ribs.  Of Steve fiery and angry, stubbornly trying again and again to enlist in the army and fight in a war he had no business fighting in because of his poor health and constitution.  Of big Steve, doing _everything_ in his power to eradicate the threat of HYDRA and the Nazis from Europe while saving as many as he possibly could.

And this Steve now, practically shaking he’s trying so desperately to keep himself together.  Carrying the team in this chaotic, modern world where old enemies and new threats are constantly charging at their gates.  Bucky doesn’t know how he does it sometimes.  Then again, up until recently, _he_ was part of that group of enemies.  He was one of the threats.  As he looks back on it now, he doesn’t know how Steve handled _that_ in addition to everything else.

It doesn’t help at the moment that it’s Wanda who’s been hurt, too.  Bucky realizes that instantly as he observes Steve struggling with his emotions.  Sure, any of the team going down in battle would weigh heavily upon the captain, but Wanda…  Well, they’re all close.  Ever since Bucky’s come out of the hell of his recovery a little, he’s noticed that, just how tightly-knit they are.  Hell, he’s been forming some bonds of his own.  His are a little tentative, somewhat wary and unsure.  Steve’s, though, are much deeper.  This has become his family, much like the Howling Commandos were back during the war.  His close friendship with Sam.  The understanding and trust he shares with Natasha.  His working relationship with Barton and Rhodes.  Even this love-hate thing he has going with Stark.  _All_ of it has grown into something far more than simple camaraderie.

And Wanda’s something of a little sister to Steve, to all of them but Steve especially.  Bucky noticed that the second he was capable of processing the world outside of his own head.  Weeks ago Steve suggested Wanda help him deal with his trauma and with the brainwashing and triggers HYDRA had implanted in his mind.  She’s been searching through his thoughts with him, using her powers to sort his memories and parse HYDRA’s programming from his own desires and sense of self.  She’s helping him with healing the damage.  Wanda’s damaged herself, and Steve took her under his wing right after Sokovia, helping her overcome her own guilt and shame over standing with Ultron and the role she had in the disaster.  As she’s been aiding Bucky in learning to contain his demons, Steve’s been teaching her to control her wild and extremely dangerous powers.  He’s been showing her how to do good with them, how to be a team player and an Avenger.  Most of it’s been subtle, with him leading by example and going to bat for her with the US government and giving her the confidence she needed to turn her life around.  Bucky knows how much that’s meant to her because she’s outright told him during one of their sessions, that Steve’s faith in her has remade her, in a sense, into something better.  Someone who can atone.  That’s why she agreed to help Bucky, so she could do the same for him.

Having her get hurt on a team mission…  This is fucking devastating.  Bucky can hardly stand his own worry and fear, the anxiety making his gut clench, so he’s got no idea how Steve’s handling it.  He’s handling it, though.  Steve’s stiff and unyielding, standing still and watching those doors, and it’s clear he’s settling in for the wait.  Bucky looks at Sam again, but Sam just sighs and shakes his head and sits on the bench where Steve was.  Bucky stands uselessly for a second, feeling miserably out of place and at a loss.  Then he reaches for Steve’s hand, taking it, weaving their fingers together as he’s relearned to.  They fit perfectly, the way they always have he knows now.  Steve lets him hold on for a second, gives him a weak shadow of a smile, before pulling away and going to stand by the wall.

_Jesus._

They wait.  Bucky paces and Sam sits and Steve stands.  They don’t talk, and Bucky finds himself sharing worried looks with Sam almost constantly.  Steve doesn’t look at either of them.  That fucking thousand-yard stare is back, and Bucky doesn’t know what to do.

Thankfully it doesn’t take too long.  A man dressed in surgical scrubs comes through the doors.  Steve immediately jerks from his trance, going straighter where he slumped into the wall.  Sam stands.  Bucky turns from his worried appraisal of Steve and watches as the doctor walks straight to the blood-soaked leader of the Avengers.  “She’s going to pull through.”

Bucky can see the shudder twisting Steve’s back, fighting to be let loose, but Steve clamps down hard and tightens up more.  “Good,” he says, like that’s enough.  He closes his eyes and swallows.  “Good.”

The doctor goes on about Wanda’s condition, reporting things like how she lost a lot of blood and the surgery was fairly exploratory and dangerous, and Bucky knows he should be listening.  Instead all he can focus on is Steve, the way his hands keep curling into fists before uncurling almost spastically, the way he keeps swallowing like he’s trying not to cry, the way the muscles of his face and jaw are working as he clenches and unclenches his teeth.  That’s what he always used to do when they were kids.  That stance.  Steve holding himself together when he has the right to fall apart.  Watching him do it now stokes this pain inside Bucky.  Here’s another thing he hated then and is realizing he hates now.  _Goddamn it, Steve._

Before he can figure out what to say and work up the courage to say it, they’re walking.  The doctor’s leading them to the ICU where Wanda has been settled.  Bucky hears more, that she’s very lucky, that she’ll sleep through the night, that there won’t be any permanent damage and she should be able to move back to the complex’s living areas in a few days.  It’s all good news, and they should be more relieved than they are.  But Bucky is still watching Steve, and Sam is, too, and Steve is tight-lipped and very clearly hiding something.

Really fucking terrifying.

By the time they reach Wanda’s room, though, the attention shifts to her as it should.  She looks alright.  Bucky still has trouble sometimes finding the right emotional responses to difficult situations, so he awkwardly hangs back as Steve and Sam go to her bedside.  Vision is already there at Wanda’s bedside, and Sam drops a hand to his shoulder.  The android (if that’s what he is – Bucky still isn’t sure.  He doesn’t think even Vision is certain at times) seems confused by the gesture for a moment, but then he accepts it for what it is: an offering of comfort for someone struggling with worry for a loved one.  “How is she?” Sam asks.

Vision doesn’t move.  “She is doing as well as can be expected,” he answers quietly.

Wanda looks small in the bed, very pale and very innocent.  The mass of her wavy brown hair is limp around her.  There are machines beeping and measuring her vitals and an IV bringing blood and saline into her body.  She’s still intubated, though Bucky’s pretty sure the doctor said they will take the breathing tube out tomorrow once they’re sure she’s on the mend.  And he _knows_ she’s going to be okay.  Plus, for fuck’s sake, he’s seen much worse than this.  Hell, he’s _done_ much worse than this.

But, again, it’s _Wanda_ , and he cares so much about her, and this is a new experience in his recovery that he doesn’t quite know how to handle.

Steve’s still handling it.  He’s standing at the foot of the bed and staring at Wanda’s limp, sleeping form with pain all over his face, pain he can’t mask this time.  He exhales slowly.  “I’m so sorry, Vision,” he murmurs.

Vision turns.  The yellow gem embedded in his forehead glows, and for a second, Bucky swears he sees fury in the other’s eyes.  That brings his own rage to bear like lightning.  If the android’s angry, though, he squashes it quickly.  “What happened, Captain?  You were with her.  Why didn’t you protect her?”

Bucky likes Vision.  He does.  But he’s crossing a line here.  Steve’s already taking this hard, even if the stupid asshole won’t admit it, and Bucky will be damned if someone else is going to rub salt in that wound by implying Steve didn’t do everything he could.

Before he can say anything, though, Steve’s shooting him a brief, sad look that silences him.  “I tried,” Steve softly responds, turning back to Vision.  “I just…  I don’t know what happened.”

“It’s not your fault,” Sam says again, this time more firmly like he’s challenging anyone to argue with him.  Like he wants to wrap this mess up with a neat bow because Wanda’s going to be okay and the Avengers won the day so the particulars don’t really matter.

Vision looks at Wanda again.  He seems to struggle for a second, not so much because he can’t logically accept that Steve’s not to blame but because he’s fighting to find the appropriate emotional response.  Not being human, Vision struggles with that sort of thing from time to time.  “I did not mean to imply it was, Captain, or that it was the fault of anyone else save for the men who shot her.  I was merely inquiring as to the circumstances.”

Steve shakes his head helplessly.  “I don’t know.  There were too many.  By the time I realized they were on her, I couldn’t get there.  Believe me, I would’ve taken the hit for her.”  He says that like he’s desperate for them to believe him, desperate to prove it.

Which is fucking bullshit, both that Steve should have to do that and that he needs to show _anyone_ he’s willing to get hurt in the line of duty.  They’ve all seen that far too much for their liking.  Sam in particular looks sick, but thankfully Vision’s the one to assure them all that this is crazy.  “Of course not, Captain.  You are never required to take a hit, as you say, for anyone.  What we do…  It’s dangerous, and injury to ourselves sometimes cannot be avoided no matter what we do.  No one should have to lay himself down at the feet of those he couldn’t save.”

Long after that, when even Vision leaves but Steve refuses to and ends up falling asleep in the chair beside Wanda’s bed, exhausted and burdened and silent with his guilt…  Bucky puts a blanket over him.  Sam’s come and gone and come again in the hours since, and he’s silent and exhausted and burdened, too, but not by his own guilt so much.  He’s staring at Steve’s face.  It’s not peaceful, even as he sleeps.  “Something’s not right,” Sam murmurs.

Bucky finishes tucking the blanket around Steve’s body.  “Huh?”

Sam presses his lips tightly into a frown.  He finally looks at Bucky.  “You believe him?”

“Believe him?”

“Believe that there were too many.”  Sam leans on the doorframe.  He’s since changed into jeans and a maroon polo shirt, and when he folds his arms over his chest, Bucky sees bruises on his biceps.  “I mean, we were outnumbered, don’t get me wrong.  But…  I’ve seen him take down entire companies of enemies by himself.  He’s a one-man army.  I don’t know how many of the bastards were left when the bombs started coming into play.  I don’t know.”

Something inside Bucky aches.  “What’re you sayin’?”

“I don’t know.  I just feel like he’s not telling us something.”  Sam watches Steve sleep a little more, scrutinizing his battered face like he’s trying to see more than what’s there.  Or trying to figure out _if_ there’s more than what’s there.  Bucky doesn’t know.  Eventually, just as Bucky’s itching under his skin to say something, Sam gives a heavy sigh and shakes his head to himself.  “It’s nothing.  I’m fucking tired.  Gonna go get a few hours of shut-eye.  You staying?”  Bucky nods.  “Okay.”

Sam goes, leaving Bucky alone with Wanda and Steve, one sleeping peacefully and the other’s face tight.  He tries not to think about what Sam said, because of course it’s nothing.  _It’s nothing._   A mission gone wrong.  A freak moment on the battlefield.  One of those things that just happens, and it hurts and it’s awful, but that’s all it is.  Nothing more to it than that.

He stands in the shadows in the corner and watches Steve sleep and tries to convince himself.  He can’t.  And he can’t stop thinking about what Vision said, about how this wasn’t Steve’s fault, about how Steve shouldn’t have to beg forgiveness from those who were hurt on his watch.  It’s not the comfort it should be, even if Bucky’s pretty sure Vision meant it.

* * *

_Two weeks later_

Bucky wakes up to Steve staring at the ceiling, and right away he knows something’s wrong.  He blinks, squinting at the sunlight streaming in through their bedroom windows where the blinds aren’t quite drawn all the way.  At first what he’s seeing doesn’t make much sense, but then he gets his elbows under him and pushes himself up off his pillows.  “Steve?”

Steve doesn’t answer, doesn’t look away from the smooth ceiling far overhead, doesn’t even seem like he heard him.  That gets Bucky even more concerned, worry quickly dashing the remains of a deep and dreamless sleep.  He leans up further, the sheets and comforter falling away from his bare back.  “Steve, you okay?”

Now Steve jerks ever so slightly like Bucky’s call actually startled him.  That makes the concern worse, and Bucky reaches over his metal hand to rub across Steve’s chest.  Steve jerks again.  “Yeah, I’m okay.”

That… seems like a bunch of bullshit.  Steve’s still not looking at him, not reacting at all even as Bucky scooches closers and rubs his palm over his belly.  The cybernetic arm HYDRA gave him doesn’t have the same level of sensory input as his flesh and blood one, that’s for sure.  He can’t really feel how smooth Steve’s skin, for example, or the firmness of where it swells over his abdominal muscles.  He can’t feel the heat from it, at least not beyond the weird, disjointed impression that happens when his brain tries to reconcile what his right hand knows and what his left hand remembers and tries to fill in the gaps.

He doesn’t need _anything_ to help him figure out that Steve’s breathing is stuttering when he’s touching him.  Something’s wrong here.  Even after what the Winter Soldier did to Steve back when SHIELD fell, all the times the asset punched Steve and stabbed and slashed Steve and _shot_ Steve…  Steve never once during the last six months, during _all_ of Bucky’s arduous recovery, ever flinched from him.

And that’s what he’s doing now.  Not flinching, per se, but something’s definitely going on.  His muscles are tightening up under Bucky’s fingers and he’s shallowing each time he inhales, and he’s _not right._   Bucky tries not to be off-put by it (but it’s fucking hard, because if he has to put a term on what this feels like, it feels like Steve’s skin is _crawling_ when he touches him).  “You sure?  You seem tense.”

As if hearing the word’s made him realize he _is_ tense, Steve visibly puts some effort into relaxing.  He reaches his own hand to take Bucky’s over his midsection.  “Yeah,” he says on a long breath.  He sweeps his thumb over Bucky’s knuckles.  Bucky can feel that in a way, the pressure sensors registering the motion, but it’s not what he would call soothing.  “Yeah, just thinkin’.”

“’bout?”

“Nothin’,” Steve whispers.  Now he puts more effort into pulling Bucky closer.  “Just things with the team.”

Bucky nuzzles closer into Steve’s side and sighs.  That’s Steve’s go-to answer lately.  He knows he shouldn’t let it bother him.  He shouldn’t let anything about their whole situation bother him really.  They’re lucky to be here, really fucking lucky, and it still amazes him that they’re together again, sleeping with each other, living with one another.  That they _found_ each other.  It took a lot to get to this, a lot of pain and fear and anguish.  For a while after Sam and Steve brought him home, Bucky had no memory of the love he and Steve used to share.  HYDRA had completely erased Steve from his mind so many times that it seemed for a while that, beyond this faint inkling of knowing him from another life, there’d be no getting him back.  No fixing their broken bond.  Steve was so calm, though, so calm and so confident.  To him, the eternal optimist, that faint inkling meant the world.  It was enough that it stopped the Winter Soldier from killing him, broke the programming and drove back the machine to let man inside escape.  Bucky pulled Steve from the river, saved his life, so Steve knew it’d be okay.  He knew that Bucky could find his way home to him if he just stayed steady and present (and that was hell in and of itself, the fucked up, twisted up mess of emotions inside that drove Bucky to hate Steve and love Steve and hurt Steve and need Steve and resent Steve all at once).  It felt impossible, insurmountable.  The cage he had to escape to reclaim everything that was taken from them both was unbreakable.

But he broke through because Steve _was_ there, still steady and present and faithful, waiting to take him back no matter what he did and what he was.  Together they dismantled that cage brick by brick, touch by touch, moment by moment, _every_ moment of the last seventy years that was stolen from them both.  Well, together was maybe more disproportionately Steve’s strength and courage and Bucky along for the ride because there was no fucking choice.  That was how it was in the beginning.   Steve held him on the right path, guided him and walked every awful step with him.  Steve held him in bed after a bad nightmare or a flashback strong enough that it drove him to puke his guts out because the stickiness of blood on his skin and the stink of fire in his nose and weight of his rifle in his hands was too real.  Steve held him and worked his fingers through Bucky’s hair and promised him that he loved him, that he’ll always love him, the man he was and the man he is and the man he’s going to become.  Steve held him when he tumbled down into paranoia, when something triggered him, when he got violent and almost psychotic against his will.  He held him no matter how hard Bucky struggled and yelled and hit.  Jesus, Steve held him through it all and did it with nothing but a smile on his face and tenderness in his hands and love and hope in his baby blue eyes.

Bucky’s ashamed to admit it now, but he lost his faith once or twice, wallowing in depression and despair and figuring there was just no way for him to ever be himself again.  There wasn’t, as Steve always reminded him.  Despite his optimism, Steve can also be strikingly realistic.  He knows that some parts of what they had back in Brooklyn, the alluring charm and youthful excitement and the splendor of secret love, are dead.  They can never get it back.  But that’s okay.  They’re not the boys they were back then, sweetly stealing kisses in Steve’s bedroom when his mom worked late or privately holding hands in the cinema or laying together on the couch cushions in Bucky’s apartment and talking all night about everything and nothing.  They’re not even the men they were during the war, where they started slipping down that nasty slope of stolen innocence, blood and death and killing and torture chipping away at a naïve, hopeful view of the world.  They are who they are now: Captain America and the Winter Soldier.  And they have their scars.  Bucky has a lot of them, scars where his arm was ripped off and the metal one was attached.  Faint scars on his torso where he was tortured, where he was shot and stabbed and beaten doing HYDRA’s dirty work.  Deep, deep scars on his psyche.  Steve has his, too, but they don’t show.

At least, they never used to.  Bucky’s not so sure anymore.  Steve’s back to that thousand-yard stare he saw that day Wanda was shot.  Ever since then, Steve’s been… _not_ Steve.  It hasn’t been anything huge or really obvious.  Rather, it’s stuff like this, like right now, with Steve staring at the ceiling with pained eyes, stiff as a fucking board beside him, distant and troubled.  Bucky doesn’t like it.  He can tell it’s early from the way the sun’s coming in (and his own internal sense of time is pretty spot-on thanks to his own shitty version of the serum and years of training).  It’s far past the time Steve normally gets up.  “No run this morning?” he prompts, trying to sound casual.

Steve swallows, and his hand stops its caress.  “Didn’t feel like it.”

“Well, holy shit,” Bucky says with a little laugh.  “Never thought I’d see the day.”  He’s trying to be light and teasing, but frankly it’s true.  Steve’s always up at the crack of dawn.  Part of it is the serum and fact he needs so little sleep, but mostly it’s his eagerness to get going with his day.  And he always starts off with a short run (which for him is something like thirty miles, either around the trails and paths of the complex or on the indoor track).  Sometimes Bucky goes with him, but most often he sleeps in and waits for Steve to come back for his shower.

And quite often somewhere between the bed and said shower they have sex.  That took even longer to get to, the point where intimacy felt normal again.  Normal and safe and _deserved_.  Steve told Bucky the first time his chaste, uncertain kisses turned heated and hungrier that there was nothing he could do, nothing he could ever become, that would make him not want him.  That sounded like empty drivel, romantic bullshit, but he knows Steve, and he knows Steve would never say something like that if he didn’t mean it.  Steve’s honest, earnest, wears his heart on his damn sleeve for the world to see and batter.  Bucky remembers that from before.  It was a minor miracle they never got caught back in Brooklyn with the way Steve used to watch him all the time and make…  What does Sam call them?  _Freaking heart eyes._   All the time, those blue eyes staring at him, worshipful and full of pure adoration.  That’s how Bucky knew it was okay.  When Steve’s under him now, it’s that same look, a thread that runs straight from a tiny, lumpy mattress on the floor in their old place in Brooklyn through the forests of Germany and Italy all the way to this California king in upstate New York.  A constant.  Steve’s eyes and Steve’s hands and Steve’s kiss.  Steve kisses like he does everything, throwing everything into it, offering everything and taking nothing for himself.  And Steve gives.  Steve’s trust and Steve’s life and Steve’s love.

When he looks into Steve’s eyes now, though, he doesn’t see that.  At least, not only that.  Bucky watches a moment, watches Steve remain impassive and seemingly uncaring about his little joke.  And that’s too much.  Bucky pulls his hand free from Steve’s, running his palm up lower to drift over the light smattering of hair that runs down beneath the waistband of Steve’s boxers.  “Well, I guess since you’re here…”

Steve doesn’t react one way or another, and Bucky doesn’t think twice, slipping his fingers under his underwear and touching lower.  Steve’s not hard, not really.  Bucky figures he can take care of that, pressing even closer, grasping the length of him and stroking lightly.  “Might as well make use of it,” he husks.

Steve grunts, shifting his hips not quite enthusiastically.  “Can’t,” he breathes.  “Got a meeting.”

Bucky leans up to kiss him.  It’s deep, and Steve opens his mouth to his probing tongue.  Deep, but not nearly as eager as it should be, and Steve’s not giving back like he usually (and enthusiastically) does.  He’s just letting Bucky lead, which is alright, Bucky supposes.  He can lead.  “Your meeting’s not until noon.”

“It’s Stark,” Steve gasps, pulling away weakly, “and Ross.  I need to be prepared.”

Bucky knows damn well what it is and what it’s about.  Ever since the near disaster in Chennai, the US government has been bearing down hard on the team, on Steve in particular.  Frankly Bucky thinks the whole thing is a fucking load of bullshit, and these people – these _politicians_ – are just like the sad group of assholes running things from afar back during the war.  Given the things he’s lost, the things Steve has sacrificed for the safety of the world, the suits have some nerve, some fucking balls on them, to sit back, basking in the safety and liberty that’s being provided _for them,_ and even think about criticizing how the Avengers get it done.  Plus they seemed to have missed the _near_ part of _near disaster._   Aside from some property damage, nothing terrible happened.  No one got hurt aside from the bad guys and Wanda, and Wanda’s fine and the bad guys deserved what they got.  So fuck them.

But Steve won’t say that.  Steve’s taking this whole thing very seriously.  It’s the latest in a line of meetings and inquiries and investigations since Sokovia.  That’s another thing that’s been grinding Bucky’s gears.  Ever since he’s been with it enough to realize what’s been going on, he’s been silently (and at times not so silently) stewing about the fact that Stark caused the mess there.  Stark _built_ Ultron and unleashed him on the world without anyone’s, let alone Steve’s, say-so.  Yeah, it was an accident, and Stark didn’t mean for it to happen, but it happened all the same, and a city was destroyed.  People died.  And Stark has a serious issue with admitting culpability for just about anything, let alone nearly causing a mass-extinction event.  Before the dust even settled, he quit the team, designated himself a “civilian non-combatant”, and let Steve handle the massive fallout.  Bucky watched all this with a mounting sense of utter disgust and fury.  Steve just took all that on his shoulders too, just carried it along with running the team and helping Bucky with his recovery and guiding and teaching the others and protecting the world on the regular.  Steve’s doing all that, and Stark threw his lot in with Secretary of State Ross, who wants more regulation and oversight (which Bucky, and Sam, too, basically read as direct control) over the Avengers.

It’s not that simple, and Bucky knows it.  Stark’s bankrolling the whole operation.  It’s his tech and gear and weapons the team uses.  His quinjet they fly.  His tower they use as a base of operations in New York city.  His huge acreage here that bears the Avengers complex.  They’re all living under his roof, living off his dime, and it’s costing a fortune.  If Stark pulls their funding, they’ll need to find another benefactor (with extremely deep pockets), work under the auspices of a government (which Steve is ardently trying to avoid), or close up shop (which would be a disaster for pretty much everyone).  Therefore, even though Steve technically calls the shots, Stark has a lot of indirect sway.

It’s a screwed up situation.  Bucky knows Steve and Stark are… _friends_ , he supposes, though at times that seems a stretch.  Teammates.  They tolerate each other.  Steve doesn’t talk poorly about anyone, but Bucky can tell Stark gets under his skin.  Steve respects him, though.  Bucky’s pretty sure Stark respects Steve, although the guy has a shitty way of showing it.  The way Sam tells it, Stark and Steve used to get along a lot better before Ultron.  That was a serious betrayal of trust.

Of course, finding out your team captain and childhood idol is sleeping with the guy who murdered your parents probably can be construed as one, too.  Definitely _is_ one, truthfully.  And having said guy recovering in your home, using your money for doctors and therapists and wearing clothes paid for by you and eating your food…  Well, that has to smart.  Steve told Bucky once when he was feeling particularly poorly about it all that he made sure this was okay with Stark before bringing him here, but _that_ was before they learned that the Winter Soldier assassinated Howard and Maria Stark on a dark road on Long Island in December of 1991.  Steve assured him that they could leave if taking Stark’s hospitality made Bucky uncomfortable, and it really did, but taking Steve away from the team seemed even more selfish.  Stark never asked them to go.  Bucky and Stark don’t talk at all to be honest, which suits them both fine.  Bucky doesn’t like the guy one bit, and Stark has every reason to despise him.

And Steve’s in the middle.  So that’s another thing he’s had to face continually.  Stark’s not the only one not too pleased that an ex-HYDRA assassin, with a long line of murders, arsons, kidnappings, and torture behind him, is taking up residence under the Avengers’ banner.  Rhodes doesn’t like it and hasn’t been too quiet about that.  Vision, for all he’s helped Bucky, has more than once expressed that his presence incites more discord.  Though she loves Steve as her good and dear friend, Natasha doesn’t like it either (although, to be honest, Bucky thinks it’s more because of their shared past and the fact that he knows Black Widow is very much afraid of him and what he can do).  Sam’s okay with it (though Bucky thinks that’s just so long as the arrangement remains beneficial to Steve).  And Wanda supports whatever Steve thinks is best.  It’s this festering mess no one seems to want to unravel, and it’s tense and awful.

It keeps getting worse, too, with the increased debate over oversight.  And now that Tony’s working with Ross.  And now that Steve’s not just fucking the Winter Soldier on the regular.  Steve’s been angling toward making the Winter Soldier an Avenger.

Yeah, screwed up situation.

Bucky doesn’t want to think about it now.  He doesn’t want Steve to think about it now, either.  Steve works too hard and thinks too much.  He wants Steve out of his head, just for a little bit.  Considering a significant portion of this shit storm is Bucky’s fault no matter how much Steve denies it, he’s more than willing to do whatever it takes to make this better for Steve.  He loves Steve.  That’s never going to change either.  Steve would burn the world down for him, and he knows that more than ever, and he’s utterly unworthy of it.  He was back in Brooklyn, and he’s far more so now.  And he’s even more grateful now.

So he litters kisses along Steve’s jaw, nosing his chin up as he works down his throat.  “You’re already prepared,” he argues matter-of-factly, digging his teeth lightly into the skin over a particularly tight tendon near the nape of Steve’s neck.  “And it’s been days since I’ve had you all to myself.  They can fucking wait.”

Steve heaves a short breath that’s not exactly pleased.  Before he can argue, Bucky attacks the sensitive place at the hinge of Steve’s jaw, licking a languid path to his ear.  That gets him a groan.  “You worry too much,” he says, feeling just a bit like nineteen year-old Bucky Barnes, leaning over a much smaller Steve Rogers, pinning him to the bed and purring in his ear.  “Always have.”

Steve doesn’t say anything to that, but his hands come up to tentatively slide down Bucky’s flanks.  The touch is familiar yet new, the way it always is now no matter how many times they have sex these days.  Bucky shivers happily.  “Come on.”

“I have to worry,” Steve murmurs into the crown of his head as Bucky sucks a mark on Steve’s throat.  “Gotta worry enough for both of us since you never do.”

That’s not true, and Bucky thinks they both know it, but he doesn’t want to debate it.  Instead he just kisses his way lower, mouthing at Steve’s neck again before painting a wet line across his collarbones and then down over the impressive swell of his pecs.  He thumbs at his nipples, teasing the little buds before sealing his lips over one.  Normally this is when Steve would blush that full-body blush of his and struggle ineffectively (well, back when he was small – now it’s ineffective because he doesn’t actually try) and whine and complain about Bucky doing this all flustered and embarrassed because he loves it so much.  He always has, and Bucky loves to make him squirm in pleasure with this sweet, little intimacy.

At the moment he’s still, watching Bucky with pained eyes like he wants to say something but isn’t.  Bucky’s confidence wavers, but he tries not to show it, laves his tongue over Steve’s skin and biting playfully.  “Only thing I’m worried ’bout right now is making you feel good.”

“I _have_ to get ready,” Steve objects weakly.

Bucky grins deviously.  “No, you don’t.  You got plenty time.”

“Buck…” Steve whines.

It doesn’t sound quite right, but Bucky doesn’t let that bother him either, kissing the reddened nipple before making his way down Steve’s stomach.  He spends a second there, tracing the hills and valleys of Steve’s abs with his tongue, slinking down under the covers between Steve’s legs.  He smiles, catching Steve’s eyes over Steve’s heaving chest, and nips playfully at the jut of his hipbone as he grabs at his boxers.  “Wanna make you feel real good,” he murmurs again, mouthing at Steve through the cotton of his underwear.  Steve’s still not hard, which is all kinds of unusual given the serum and how sensitive and eager he is.  Bucky doesn’t stop to think about it, though.  He has to make this better.  “Let me do that, huh?  You deserve to feel good, Stevie…”

“Bucky, I–”  Bucky strokes and sucks right through Steve’s boxers, sloppy and wet, eager to please.  That’s all he wants.  Steve groans and shifts, bucking up and twisting, but Bucky grasps his hips and pushes him back to the mattress gently.  “Bucky, please…”  All the times they’ve done this to each other…  Bucky knows exactly which buttons of Steve’s to press, twisting his hand, kissing and licking until the fabric’s wet and clinging.  Finally Steve’s firming up in his grasp, the length of him getting thicker and hotter, and Bucky’s pleased as punch.  He pulls Steve’s boxers down all the way and takes him into his mouth.

“Buck, please…  I…  Please _stop_ …”

That’s like ice water splashing over him.  Immediately Bucky pulls off, lets Steve go, and leans up.  He stares down at Steve from his knees, wide-eyed with his heart absolutely pounding in his chest.  “What?  What’s wrong?”

Steve’s flushed, but it’s not from arousal.  Bucky can see things now he didn’t before, that Steve’s fisting the sheets and blankets but _not_ from pleasure or a need to hang on.  He’s barely breathing, not panting and whimpering and happily losing himself like he normally does when Bucky sucks him off.  He’s _rigid_.  “I just…” he stammers, pressing his lips together.  “I just don’t feel…”

“You don’t want to?” Bucky asks.  Steve looks absolutely ashamed, _stricken_ , his expression struggling to keep up some semblance of emotional stability.  He chews the inside of his lip and shakes his head.  It’s hardly more than a reflexive jerk.  “Oh.  I, uh…  I should have…”

Christ, he should have fucking _noticed._

Bucky slides away, scrambles to the other side of the bed, mortified.  Consent’s a big deal with them, mostly because of him.  He had his body taken from him, his will subverted and his autonomy crushed, for seven decades.  Steve’s always been very mindful of that.  In the beginning, when they first started to rekindle their sexual relationship, Steve made a point to ask all the time.  _“Is this okay, Buck?  Do you want to?  Tell me what you’re feeling.  Tell me what you want me to do.”_   He telegraphed every touch, waited for approval at every juncture, sought Bucky’s permission for even the slightest kiss.  Bucky looks back on it now and realizes how much he needed that, how he needed the power of _choice._   But it must have been hell for Steve, whose last memories of their relationship were probably full of passion and unspoken devotion and easy sex and so much _trust_.  They’ve finally started to get that back, and it’s been such a comfort.

Until now.  Now Bucky’s the one who’s fucked it all up.  “Shit, I’m sorry.”

“No, no,” Steve says, and he sits up, pulling his boxers back up as he does.  He also pulls the covers pretty firmly over his lower body.  Bucky wishes he could not see that, but now he’s aware of _everything_.  “I’m the one who’s sorry.  It’s not you, Bucky.  I swear it’s not.  You didn’t do anything wrong.  I…  I just don’t feel right.  I don’t–”

Bucky gets off their bed.  His own erection has wilted in record time, but he still goes to find some pants just to cover up.  “You don’t have to explain,” he says as he pulls on his sweats from the night before.  “Christ, the number of times we’ve given up because I didn’t feel good about it…”  That gives him pause, and he turns around to stare at Steve.  The fact that _Steve_ doesn’t feel comfortable having sex.  They haven’t for days, not since before Chennai.  The fact that Steve’s sitting there, looking like how Bucky used to feel.  Alarms wail in his head that maybe something else really is going on here.  “What’s wrong?”

Steve blanches, and for a second, Bucky swears he looks terrified.  Like he’s been caught.  Then he clams up and offers an easy smile.  “Nothing’s wrong.  I’m fine.”

That’s definitely bullshit.  Bucky can see that, too.  “You’ve been… distant, I guess, since Wanda got shot.  Are you okay?”  It’s the first time he’s asked that, he’s realizing, _really_ asked it.  He’s asked now and again since the last mission, but Steve always gives the same answer and Bucky takes it at face value.

And here comes that answer again.  “Yeah, I just said I’m fine.  Of course I am.  Why wouldn’t I be?”  He tries for another smile, and this one seems slightly less tortured.  Slightly.

“Well, I think I can count the number of times you’ve ever said no to me gettin’ you off on one hand, so there’s that.  And it’s never because you don’t want it.”  That feeble smile collapses into a frown, and Steve averts his eyes.  Bucky sighs and tries not to seem confrontational.  “What gives?”  Steve frowns.  “I’m not mad or upset – well, I guess I am a little, but only ’cause I’m worried.  And I mean it now.  I’m worried.  Something tells me what you said before about you having to worry enough for the both of us is backwards.”

“Bucky–”

“What’s going on?” Bucky asks, lowering his voice.  Steve doesn’t answer, and he still doesn’t look at him.  Bucky shakes his head, mind racing.  “Is it because of Ross coming?”

“No,” Steve says.

“You don’t have to go to bat for me, you know.  I want to fight with you at your side, be with you out there, but not if it’s gonna–”

“That’s not – there’s nothing wrong.”

“Is it because of what happened with Wanda?”  Steve’s jaw clenches.  Bucky sighs.  “Steve, she’s fine.  It was a bad scare, but it’s over.”

“I know that,” Steve says, and now there’s a curt edge to his voice.  He’s flinging the sheets and covers back and briskly getting out of bed, pulling his boxers up more firmly as he does.  He walks toward the bathroom, his gait stiff in an attempt to hide how agitated he’s getting all the sudden.

Bucky’s confused as hell, lurching to follow him.  “No one blames you!  No one.  She definitely doesn’t.  She told you that!”  Wanda did.  The first words out of her mouth when she woke up the day after she was hurt were just that: telling Steve what happened wasn’t his fault.  Bucky was there.  He should have recognized _right then_ that Steve would internalize that guilt because that’s what Steve always does, that even though Steve smiled and thanked Wanda and apologized to her and told her he’ll make sure it never happens again like _that_ was the end of it, there _wasn’t_ ever going to be an end to it because Steve can’t let it go.  “Jesus, everyone’s behind you.  Everyone.  Wilson and Romanoff and Wanda and all of the team.  Even Barton.  The public.  You know that, don’t you?  And if Ross and Stark aren’t, they can fucking suck a–”

“I’m fine,” Steve interrupts, whirling at the door to the huge bathroom inside their suite.  “Just drop it, okay?  I can handle it.”

Bucky can’t believe this, can’t believe Steve’s acting like, well, how he used to act.  “Steve, come on.  Talk to me–”

Steve’s eyes flash.  “Drop it,” he says again, and that’s not a request.  That’s an order, spoken with the tone of voice he usually reserves for battle.  Bucky bristles.  Steve doesn’t back down, doesn’t apologize.  “I have to get ready.”

Bucky opens his mouth to argue, but he can’t say a thing because the bathroom door is slammed in his face.

* * *

Bucky’s still seething by the time he gets down to the gym.  He goes to his locker – _his_ locker, like he deserves anything in this place – and changes into some workout clothes, some track pants and a black t-shirt.  Then he goes at it, and he works himself hard.  He runs.  Hits the weights.  Push-ups and sit-ups and pull-ups.  Hundreds of each.  With his own version of the super soldier serum, he can go for hours, and he does, letting his mind go blank as he sweats and breathes heavily and lets the exertion of really strenuous exercise block out his troubles.  It works well enough, though beyond the sting of sweat in his eyes and the pleasant aching burn of overused muscles, all his troublesome thoughts are still right there, buzzing like flies around in his head.  All his worries and fears and doubts.  No matter how he tries to ignore them, they don’t go away.

_What the hell is wrong with Steve?_

Eventually he can’t fight their persistent demands any longer, and as he goes a round with the reinforced punching bag near the boxing ring where he and Steve sparred sometimes, it all comes to the forefront.  He hits the bag hard, a steady, rapid _thwack thwack thwack_ that echoes through the silent gym.  It matches the heavy, quick pulse of his heart.  _Jesus, what’s going on with him?  Did I do something?_ His feet are light on the mats, shifting in agile steps as he narrows his eyes and focuses deeper and throws more into every punch.  _He didn’t want me to touch him.  Christ, he’s_ never _not wanted me to touch him.  Even when I wasn’t fucking me he let me touch him._   The anger swells up inside him.  It scares him sometimes, how angry he can suddenly become.  How out of control he feels when he does.  Seventy years of being allowed no emotions makes them so much sharper now and more difficult to understand and restrain.  _He’s never pushed me away.  Never shut me out.  Not like this._ And when he loses his cool, he really loses it.  It’s not as if he doesn’t remember what he’s done or what was done to him.  He does.  It simply has no emotional context because he couldn’t feel it or process it at the time.  The things his therapist is teaching him, things to help him to do just that and feel and process and overcome…  They don’t always seem strong enough.

Like now.  He hits harder and harder, gritting his teeth and throwing everything into every swing, and he can’t get the memory of the pained apprehension all over Steve’s face when he kissed him out of his head.  It hurts so fucking much.  _What the hell what the hell what the hell–_

“You beat that any harder and it’ll break.”

Bucky startles, stops, and turns.  Natasha’s there.  She’s dressed in track pants and a black tank-top that does nothing to hide her curves.  She’s staring at him impassively.  There aren’t too many people who can sneak up on him, but she’s one of them.  Truth be told, Bucky doesn’t know what to think about her most of the time.  It bothers him that she remembers him much better than he remembers her.  Of all the friends Steve made when he became an Avenger, she’s the most mysterious.  She’s always like this, stoic and standoffish, watching him as if she’s silently gauging him or measuring him up.  Just like she did in the Red Room.  That he remembers well.  And he knows Steve trusts her, trusts her with his life in fact, but the Black Widow the Winter Soldier knew – _Natalia Alianovna Romanova_ – was not to be trusted.

Then again, he did put a bullet through her stomach some years ago out in the middle of a hellish desert.  So maybe her behavior’s pretty well warranted.

Bucky sighs and drops his hands, the plates of the metal one shifting as he does.  “They don’t break,” he reports on a heavy breath.  He’s apparently sweated up a storm.  His shirt is sticking to his chest with it, his hair plastered uncomfortably to his forehead and neck.  He feels gross.  “Stark reinforced them.”

“I know.”  She coolly arches an eyebrow.  “I see you’re picking up Steve’s bad habits.”

“More like he’s picking up mine,” Bucky grumbles, and he starts unwinding the wraps from his right hand.  “He seem off to you?”

“Off?”

Bucky doesn’t know what he’s doing.  He’s okay with talking casually with Sam and Wanda, and with Steve of course, but not so much with Natasha or anyone else for that matter.  The worry gnawing at his innards doesn’t relent, though, and it’s driving him.  He knows Steve spends a lot of time with Natasha.  Since Stark quit, she’s become his right-hand man (or woman, and she’s damn good at what she does).  Plus she’s a spy, one of the best there ever was, and she didn’t get to that position by being unobservant.  If anyone else has noticed something weird about Steve’s behavior, it’ll be her.  “Yeah, off.  Not himself.”  She just stares, and Bucky resists the urge to scowl.  “Distant.  Kinda…  I don’t know, moody.”

“Moody?”

He can’t tell if she’s amused and teasing him or just pressing his buttons to glean more information.  Either way, it’s pissing him off.  “He’s not himself,” he says again, “and I’m worried.”

She stares at him inscrutably.  The emotionless appraisal really rankles him, but he stands his ground and stares back.  The silence wears on uncomfortably, and she’s the one who finally looks away and speaks.  “He has his moments.  After New York, after SHIELD went down…” She seems troubled.  “After he found out about you.”  Bucky grimaces.  He doesn’t like to think about it.  He’s committed a lifetime of horrors under HYDRA’s control, but somehow those few awful minutes when Project: Insight was launching and he was pumping three bullets into Captain America’s body stick out.  And he knows now what Steve risked to get him back, how hard he and Sam searched, how damn dangerous it was picking through HYDRA safehouses and hidden nests and who the fuck knows what else to find him.  It’s hard to imagine what that was like, sifting through seventy years of ghosts and demons to find answers.  He’s pretty sure Steve knows more about what he’s done and what’s been done to him than he does himself. 

“He has PTSD.”  The room went silent while Bucky lost himself in those thoughts, but now he looks up at Natasha with sharp, surprised eyes.  She stands there seemingly uncaringly, but Bucky knows that’s far from the truth.  “Like a lot of us do.”  She shakes her head.  “Didn’t you know?”

Bucky looks away, shame heating his face.  “I know.  Of course, I know.”  _Post-traumatic stress disorder._ Back in the day, they called it combat fatigue or shell shock.  _That thousand-yard stare._   His therapist has talked to him about his own issues with the condition, so much so that he knows the symptoms inside and out.  _Nightmares.  Flashbacks.  Avoidance.  Flattened emotional affect.  Anxiety and depression.  Hypervigilance._   It’s a fucking catalog of his life, and when he fits that rubric to what he’s seen of Steve recently…  “I just…”  Helplessly he heaves a sigh in submission.  “This is going to sound awful, but I thought he had it under control.”

“He does,” Natasha replies evenly.  “He does because he has to.”

“Because he’s Captain America,” Bucky says, equal parts spiteful and resigned.

“Because he’s Captain America,” Natasha agrees.  Her tone suggests she thinks she’s teaching him something, that she’s teaching him he doesn’t _need_ to be worried about Steve because of who Steve is, which is _bullshit_ , and these people seem to think that they know Steve more than he does.  Steve was Captain America long before he was _their_ captain.  The callous disregard they have for Steve’s life before the ice drives him nuts sometimes, and it’s infuriating because Steve lets it happen and Bucky isn’t sure enough about that life to defend it.  He wants to be angry but he can’t manage it.

Natasha’s going on anyway.  “Because he leads us and Ross watches him do it.  The _world_ watches him do it.  He knows that, and he knows we need him, so he handles it.”

Bucky frowns.  “That’s not–”

“Fair,” Natasha says, “but I don’t have to tell you that life’s not fair.”  Bucky quiets at that.  It doesn’t sit well with him.  _None_ of this sits well with him.  Natasha stares at him a moment more.  Then she sighs and takes a step closer.  “I’ve seen him ride the throes of it before.  He hides it well.  Sometimes…”  She quirks a rueful smile.  “Sometimes I think I could learn a thing or two from him about compartmentalizing.  You know what they did to us in the Red Room.”  Bucky does.  It wasn’t as direct as literally pumping his brain full of electricity to scorch the neural pathways and burn away his memories and emotions, but it was still vile and painful.  Brainwashing and conditioning and complete indoctrination from childhood.  The Soviets didn’t fuck around.  “There’s…  I don’t know, some _nobility_ to what he does.  I knew from New York that he was hurting.  I knew it in DC.  I knew it after SHIELD collapsed.  I know it now.  But I’ve talked to him about it, and he always says he has it under control.”

“And you believe him.”

She looks hesitant a moment.  “I trust him.”  That’s not quite the same.  Bucky shakes his head, so Natasha is quick to go on.  “If he says he can take it, he can take it.  He can take care of himself.  If he’s down now, he’ll get back up.  It’s what he does.”

Bucky wants to snap – _it’s not fair it shouldn’t be the fucking status quo!_ – but he doesn’t.  Natasha frowns, but now it’s softer and heartfelt.  “I know what it’s like to wake up.”  Her tone is pained, like she’s remembering something she’s not proud of.  “When you’re trying to put yourself back together, trying to become something better than what you were, you start building this new picture of the world and the good, healthy people in it and your place with them.  You start off easy, with a simple sketch, because anything more than just existing some days seems too impossible.  Then when you feel… _comfortable,_ you start coloring things in, filling in the details.  They help you, the people taking care of you.  You add more and more details until it’s not just this simple sketch anymore and it’s starting to look like a real picture with you in it right next to them, only you see things that weren’t there before because it’s _real_.  And you think if the picture you have of something or someone looks wrong, it has to be your eyes making it that way because you’re the damaged one.  Everything looks wrong because you don’t see things right.  You can’t.  You’re not healthy.”  She shakes her head.  “Eventually, though… you start to realize that’s not entirely true.  Those details…  It’s not just that you’re damaged.  The people taking care of you are hurting.  _They’re_ damaged, too, fraying around the edges, and you’re just finally _seeing_ it.”

Bucky stares at her.  She shakes her head again, focusing on him now.  “Then you start wondering how much of that is your fault.  How much of that damage did you cause and how much worse are you making it by leaning on others so much.  Nothing good ever comes from that.  And the thing is, they tell you they’re okay, and you have to believe them, because they’re the ones who _are_ healthy, the ones who embody everything you’re trying to become, so if they’re not fine, then everything’s really upside down and you’re even more lost.”

“What’re you saying?” Bucky curtly demands.

Natasha smiles weakly.  “I…  I don’t know.  Just that I’ve been there, I guess.  Things work out, but it’s easy to slip back.”  He knows that.  It’s a battle he’s fighting every day, not so much to keep HYDRA’s programming at bay anymore but to overcome his own PTSD and depression.  “Don’t let yourself get lost in the details.  And don’t worry about Steve so much.  He’s alright.  He knows how to get over what’s bothering him, and if you lose your bearings, that’s only going to be one more thing for him to deal with.  That makes everything worse, makes him lose _his_ bearings, and he doesn’t need that right now.  He knows what he’s doing.”

“You’re sure of that?”

She’s not.  He can tell that, could tell it earlier even if he still has a hard time figuring her out.  And she concedes that.  “For right now, I am.  If that changes…”  She takes a deep breath.  “Then we’ll deal with it.”

She offers a genuine smile (he thinks it’s genuine anyway) and walks away.  Obviously she means for him to be satisfied with that, but he’s not.  He’s never going to be satisfied with the idea that these people, no matter how well-meaning, know Steve better than he does, no matter how fucked up his memories are.  He _knows_ something’s not right.

And he’s never going to be satisfied with being told he’s too broken to care.  That’s selfish bullshit.  He’s not going to lose his bearings.  As long as he can see Steve, he knows exactly where he’s supposed to be.

* * *

That resolution lasts all of an hour, just long enough for him to shower and grab something to eat.  The second he heads up to the upper levels of the complex, he runs into Sam.  Sam’s agitated.  “It’s not going well,” he comments where he stands outside one of the many conference rooms.

Bucky comes to his side.  There’s a long glass wall, one that can be tinted but isn’t probably because the occupants are too distracted and heated to notice that their argument is very visible.  Said occupants are Steve, who’s sitting at the table and mostly getting yelled at for the moment, and Stark, who’s dressed in a snazzy, gray, three-piece suit (the jacket of which is on the back of his chair) and wildly gesticulating.  His face is the picture of frustration as he clearly shouts whatever point he’s trying to make, and Steve’s expression is one of very clenched anger.  The conference room is sound-proofed, so Sam and Bucky can’t hear their fight, but seeing it is enough.  “Ah, shit,” Bucky whispers, shaking his head.  This is _exactly_ what he feared this meeting would be like.  “Ross?”

“Gone already,” Sam reports.

“What did he say?”

Sam sighs, folding his arms across his chest.  “Nothing worth repeating.”  He scowls at the scene before him.  “But Stark’s repeating it.”  Stark’s eyes flash and he throws his arms out in exasperation.  “Repeatedly.”

“Goddamn it,” Bucky hisses.  Steve licks his lips like he wants to speak, but he’s silently shaking his head instead, politely waiting for Stark to finish his animated tirade.  He doesn’t have to be so damn well-mannered all the time.  Bucky knows Sarah Rogers, a godly and good woman, would box his ears for thinking this, but sometimes people deserve to be interrupted just to hear that they’re being unimaginable assholes.

Like Stark right now.  Steve clearly can’t get a word in edgewise, and Stark doesn’t seem to care.  He’s walking around the gleaming table, coming closer to where Steve’s sitting on the other side, and points at Steve.  The tension is palpable even if the words are mute.  He jabs a forefinger right at Steve, and Steve clenches his jaw.  “Jesus,” Sam murmurs.  “This is painful.”

Bucky can’t argue with that.  Once or twice when Barton’s been around before his retirement became more permanent, he used to liken this to watching mom and dad fight.  It’s kind of like that, only Bucky’s got absolutely no sympathy for Stark (whether Stark’s mom or dad, he doesn’t know or care).  It takes all his willpower to stand there and just watch.  Every muscle in his body feels coiled tight.  Sam’s much the same beside them, glowering as Stark continues like some sort of tyrannical parent chastising an errant child.  Steve still sits and listens, though his jaw’s working harder as he grinds his teeth.  Bucky can practically see his patience erode as the lecture goes on and on.  He knows how hard it is to get Steve to lose his cool when he’s trying to hold onto it like this, but Stark’s managing it.

And Stark doesn’t read Steve’s body language like Bucky can.  He actually takes a step back when Steve finally stands up and points out the glass wall toward the hallway.  Steve’s right in his face, his stature completely confrontational.  Bucky’s never seen Iron Man in person, but there’s plenty of footage of the armor in battle, and he’s knows it’s sleek and powerful.  Like this, though?  Steve’s got a few inches of height and at least fifty pounds of muscle on Stark, and it all shows.  Stark swallows like he didn’t actually expect Steve to stand up to him and goes silent as Steve speaks, cowed by the anger in Steve’s gaze and maybe by whatever he was saying.  Maybe.

They don’t get to find out, because Stark follows Steve’s pointing finger and spots them.  Immediately the air in the room changes.  Steve doesn’t realize what’s happened for a second, which indicates pretty fantastically that he isn’t aware Sam and Bucky are in the hallway.  Then he turns, meets Bucky’s gaze, and his face loosens from its tense, baleful frown, lips going lax in alarm and eyes widening.  Bucky glances between Steve and Stark, and it’s pretty damn obvious that the problem isn’t so much that he and Sam are there witnessing the fight.  No, it’s that _he’s_ there at all.

Stark so kindly confirms that when he bursts out of the conference room and charges right up to them.  “Why the hell are you here?” he snarls, stuffing his arms into his suit jacket.

Bucky can’t help it.  All the anger coursing through him gets worse, stronger, pounding in his veins, and suddenly the guilt and shame he constantly feels for what happened to Stark’s parents isn’t enough to stay his hand.  Sam seems to sense that, getting himself right in between them.  “Whoa, easy!  Easy!”

“You’re not an Avenger,” Stark says, and he’s dripping this infuriatingly oily calm.  He brushes his arms clean, like there could be dirt or dust on his suit jacket via proximity to Bucky.  “You hear that, Cap?  He’s not an Avenger.”

Steve’s coming up right behind them.  He looks a mix of horrified, furious, and just plain exhausted.  “Tony, stop.  Just stop, okay?  You made your point.”

Stark turns to Steve, his face the picture of irritation and condescension.  “No, I don’t think I have.  I don’t think you get it because he’s _still_ here.  You know, I bit my tongue about this whole fucking thing because we’re friends–”

“I know you did.”

“–the fact that he’s a fucking murderer notwithstanding–”

Steve looks so goddamn hurt.  “Tony, come on.”

“–and I realized it was important to have him some place contained and away from where HYDRA or anyone else could get their hands on him.  But he’s better now.  Cured.”  Bucky bristles.  It’s bad enough that Stark’s talking about him like he’s not standing right there, like he’s not a _person_ in fact, but to make light of this whole process…  There’s no _cure._   He’s never going to be one hundred percent normal.  It’s not a binary state of bad or good, broken or fixed.  It’s a continuum of recovery, and there are steps forward and steps back and they don’t come in some mathematically predictable fashion.  This isn’t some fucking equation anyone can solve to get all the answers.

And Stark’s smart enough to know that.  This isn’t about Bucky getting better.  It’s about Stark lashing out at Steve, because Steve hurt him by wanting Bucky here to begin with.  And Steve’s _been_ hurting him by not bowing down to whatever Stark thinks is right.  And Stark’s hurting Steve by not even trying to see that there’s a man who was tortured for seventy years under the Winter Soldier, a good man who HYDRA utterly destroyed in order to build a weapon.  And Stark is pressing whatever he’s pressing about Ross.  It’s a mess.  There’s so much bitterness among them that it’s getting increasingly impossible not to choke on it.

Stark, being Stark, doesn’t back down one bit.  “So I don’t see why he’s still loafing around my complex and eating my food and watching my TV and using my stuff and sweating up the sheets in _my_ building with you.”  Steve grimaces.  He never takes it well whenever Stark (or anyone else for that matter) makes light of their relationship (or says anything disparaging about Bucky and why he’s here).  Stark keeps going, the asshole.  “There’s no reason, no good reason.”

“He’s not safe anywhere else,” Steve says.

“Well, that’s his problem,” Stark snaps, “and yours if you want to continue with this.  You know why he’s not safe?  Why I keep _lying_ to Ross about it?  You know why our dear Secretary of State and the governments of the world would shit a brick if they found out he’s here?  Because your buddy’s a war criminal.”

“That’s not fair, Tony!”

“Life’s not fair, Cap.”  There’s that again.  It’s bullshit.  “What did you think?  You’d have Wanda and Vision fix his broken brain and that’d just _erase_ all the atrocities he’s committed?”

Sam shakes his head.  “Enough, Stark.  Come on.”

“No.  No, no, _no_.”  Tony glares at all three of them but at Steve most of all.  He lowers his voice, not because he wants to quiet the argument but because he wants to sound threatening.  And he does.  “No way he _ever_ puts on a uniform and goes out with the team.  It’s never happening.  We’re never going to put a gun in his hands and expect him to function out there.  We’re never going to scrape that Soviet star off his arm and paint a pretty ‘A’ where it was.  _Never_.”

It’s silent.  Tony’s right in Steve’s space, glaring daggers at him, and he’s not giving an inch.  Throughout it all, Bucky’s only been able to focus on Steve, and Steve’s faltering.  This is harsh.  And the thought that it’s about him…  He doesn’t know what to say, what to do.  He’s back to being a fucking useless statue, and for a moment, he almost wishes for the comfort of the programming.  He didn’t have to feel with that.  He didn’t have to make any decisions.

Stark sighs.  “Them’s the breaks, Cap.  You don’t like what Ross had to say?  You don’t like that the government wants us under control?  It’s stuff like this – like having him here – that causes it.  It’s almost choking part of India in a cloud of anthrax.  It’s that mission last month where civilians got caught in the crossfire or the one two months ago where half a city block was leveled or–”

“Ultron,” Sam says coldly.  “Don’t forget that.”

Stark glares at him, but now he falters a little too, and his voice softens with shame.  “It’s Sokovia.  It’s the billions of dollars of property damage when Project: Insight came crashing down into the Potomac.  It’s the people who died in Greenwich when Thor battled the Dark Elves or the ones who were killed when the Chitauri invaded.  It’s _all_ of that.”  He sighs.  “We need to do what we can now to stave off something worse.  You think I want to wear the government’s collar?”

Honestly, Bucky’s pretty sure he does.  Stark’s looking for a method to ameliorate his guilt.  He’s trying to shift the blame to someone else when something goes wrong.  Bucky’s not sure he can begrudge him that, because living with the mistakes you make, the evil that you do unwittingly and unwillingly, can be crushing.  He knows that better than anyone.  In that way, at least, he understands Stark better than Steve ever will.

That doesn’t mean he likes him more, though.  On the contrary, using his presence to guilt Steve into doing something he doesn’t want to do is unequivocally cruel, and he’s about to say as much.  But Steve speaks first.  “Tony, I know you.  I know you, and _this isn’t you._ ”  Stark’s eyes flash.  Frankly, Bucky thinks Steve’s got this all wrong.  This seems very much in-line with Stark, foisting his wants and opinions on others because he thinks he knows best.  “You want me to believe you trust Ross?  The same Ross who reinstated the super soldier program and pushed Bruce into becoming the Hulk.  The same Ross who hunted him across the world and forced him into hiding.  You _trust_ him?”

Stark pauses a second.  “I trust him more than I trust us not to mess up.”

Steve’s face goes slack.  Sam winces and glances between him and Bucky.  For his own part, Bucky just stares at the only person he’s ever loved and lets his heart ache for him.  Maybe Stark said _us_ on purpose there, to spread the culpability as diplomatically and sensitively as he could.  _Maybe._ But it’s the equivalent of putting make-up on a toad.  It’s still _ugly._  Steve’s the leader of the Avengers, _their_ captain, so there’s no _us_ , not really.  And they all know it.

Stark realizes he’s gotten his point across.  The aggressive tone dissipates, and there’s a hint of regret there that makes Bucky want to throttle him.  “This is coming down the line,” he declares firmly.  He stares at Steve, and Steve just looks defeated.  “It is.  It’s coming whether we like it or not.  We can fight it all we want, and you and I can keep arguing and tearing each other up, but we can’t stop it.  The policy-makers aren’t going to let a group of enhanced, costumed vigilantes police the world anymore.”

“You do remember that until about two years ago the policy-makers were all HYDRA in disguise, don’t you?” Sam says angrily.

Stark just glances at him, like that’s not worth debating again.  It’s probably not.  Bucky doesn’t know the whole story here, how deep the schism is, but it’s pretty obvious it’s not closing with more talk.  Minds are made up, and no one’s bending.  “It might not even be all that bad.  You keep telling me following orders means we cede control, but it also means we have support.  We’re not out there unilaterally making all the decisions and reaping all the consequences, good or bad.  If you’d had more help a couple weeks back, maybe Wanda wouldn’t have been shot.”

 _Oh, fuck you._   Steve jerks.  It’s not much, just a minute shudder, but to Bucky it’s like he’s been physically struck.  “Steve,” he says, finally finding his voice, “let’s go.  Okay?  Let’s go.”

Stark turns to look at him, and Bucky figures he’ll snap something about how he has no right to say anything, either.  But the other man’s expression isn’t anything nearly that harsh.  He realizes he stepped in it.  “Steve, I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to imply that was your fault.  It was no one’s fault.”

“Yeah, it’s easy, isn’t it?” Sam says.  Bucky’s never heard so much spite in his tone.  “To sit here on the sidelines and criticize?  To throw stones like you haven’t got blood on your hands.”

“Sam,” Steve warns, but his voice is barely a whisper.  He’s shaken but good.

“I didn’t mean it that way,” Stark says again, this time more firmly.  It’s possibly the most genuine thing Bucky’s ever heard him say.  “I meant to say it’ll be easier to have more support.  Come on, Wilson.  You were a company guy.  You _all_ were.”  That’s the first time Stark’s spoken to him since this conversation began, even if it’s him as part of a group.  “You were soldiers.  You have to appreciate the comfort that comes from having an army behind you.  The simplicity of orders to follow.”

Steve catches his eyes, gives a little shake of his head.  Obviously Stark doesn’t understand what being a soldier’s like at all.  Sure, there’s comfort in that.  There’s a reason for the structure, for the chain of command.  But at least for him and for Steve and for Sam, too…  Nothing’s more frightening than being treated like a pawn on a gameboard.  Nothing’s more terrifying than becoming a simple weapon, a gun to be aimed and shot, a trigger to be pulled by men like Ross.  Nothing’s more terrifying than losing your freedom to choose.

No, that’s not true.  He’s had that freedom taken from him so many times that actually having it back is almost the most terrifying thing of all.

“We’re not debating this anymore,” Stark says, pulling Bucky from his thoughts.  “If and when it happens, we’re signing whatever they want.  Doing whatever they want.  The threat of causing another Sokovia or DC or Greenwich or anything…  It can’t happen again.  So that’s it.”

That’s not it, but Stark’s already leaving without even saying goodbye, and Steve’s already slumping against the wall in surrender.  Bucky stares at him, furious and sad and so fucking worried that it hurts.  He doesn’t know what to do.  He wants to touch him, to make it better somehow, but he just stays rooted in place, staring like a useless fucking statue all over again.  “Jesus,” Sam finally whispers, looking lost and annoyed.  He shakes his head.  “Steve, what should we do?”

As if he’s been jolted by a livewire, Steve pushes off the wall and stiffly walks away.

* * *

It’s not until later that night, late in fact, that Bucky sees Steve again.  He knows he should have done more, gone after Steve after the meeting ended, but he just couldn’t.  Steve has training that afternoon, working with the rest of the active Avengers.  In the wake of Wanda getting hurt, he’s pushed them all harder, driven the team longer and further, to make sure it doesn’t happen again.  Bucky could have watched outside the training yard, but he didn’t.  Stark’s harsh words about him not being welcome, about how he’ll _never_ be an Avenger, keep him away.  He can’t figure out if Stark meant what he said or if the rich asshole was just trying to get under Steve’s skin, but whatever it was, the more he thinks about it, the more it bothers him.  It’s confirmation of the doubt that’s already been nibbling at his resolve the past couple weeks, ever since the mission to India and Steve started acting differently.  It’s like Natasha said; now that he’s really noticing the damage, he’s wondering just how much of it is his fault.  And now that he’s seeing it, those things he was thinking before, that maybe it _will_ be better if Steve doesn’t have to deal with him on top of everything else he’s facing, come back like a bird of prey swooping down for the kill.  He knows that’s not what Steve wants.  Steve wants him to fight at his side and find the absolution he’s so desperately seeking.  Most of all, Steve wants him to be happy.

But, on the other hand, Bucky wants Steve to be happy, and this thing going on right now…  This isn’t happiness.  This isn’t peace.  There’s no peace to be had here and now.  Maybe there never was, and they were feeling comfortable and hopeful over a damn illusion.  This is too much stress, too much pressure, for one man to take.  Maybe if Bucky left…

_No._

He doesn’t let himself think about it.

Instead he misses dinner.  Putters around their suite aimlessly.  Tries not to find any truth in what was said, that he loafs around like a bum, eats the food and watches the TV and uses the gym and fucks Steve because that’s what he’s here for now.  Eventually he gets tired of his own bullshit and sits down and reads.  He’s in the middle of _1984_ by George Orwell.  It’s on a list of the greatest 20th century novels that he’s been working through.  Despite having spent more time awake over the past seven decades than Steve (which is a real pain in the ass for trying to figure out how old he is, that and the fact that neither he nor Steve seem to be aging much), he’s even more behind on culture and music and literature and the like than Steve is.  He was never much of a reader as a kid, even though he was a stellar student.  He likes it more now.  It’s something that keeps him focused, something that lets him appreciate the quiet while preventing all the nasty shit in his head from getting out.  He’s not liking this book, though.  It’s too close to home, too apropos.  Too many themes about autonomy and identity and paranoia and the government being, well, HYDRA.  The Party and the Thought Police and Big Brother.  It’s too much, and he puts the book down and gives up.

For a while he feels itchy with unused energy and considers going down to beat the bag again, but leaving the suite means potentially dealing with other people, and he doesn’t have it in him.  So he ends up cramming down a sandwich, staring out the huge window of their living area at the woods that surround the complex, noticing for (not for the first time) that this place can look and feel like a cage.  That’s not any better than the thoughts he was having about the book, so he decides he’s giving up on today and just going to bed.

He’s coming out of the bathroom after brushing his teeth and washing up to find the bedroom dim with night and just as he left it, only Steve’s there, staring at the bed with miserable eyes.  His gaze is unfocused, loaded with so much pain that Bucky’s actually gets scared.  He comes closer on light feet.  “Steve?”  Steve doesn’t answer right away.  It’s that stare again.  Christ, Bucky can’t stand it.  “Steve?  Doll?”

Steve turns around.  Suddenly his eyes seem fever bright, like something’s burning up inside him, and then he’s crossing the distance between them.  Bucky takes a step back.  The look on Steve’s face…  It’s not threatening at all, not dangerous, but it’s frightening all the same because it’s not him.  It’s all wrong, eyes filled with desire but vacant in way.  Steve’s never looked at him like this, all hunger and need but frightened.  Bucky doesn’t know what to make of it.  “Steve, you okay?”

Steve cups his face.  He seems almost shocked or relieved, eyes searching and finally finding whatever he’s looking for.  Bucky swallows uncertainly, reaching up to pull Steve’s hand away gently.  “What’s going on?”

“I thought I…”  Confusion fills Steve’s eyes, confusion followed by tears.  “I thought…”

Increasingly worried, Bucky tries for a smile and shakes his head, rubbing his palm along Steve’s cheek.  “What?”

“You were gone,” Steve whispers.  “Fell.  Couldn’t get you back.”  He closes his eyes.  “So real.”

 _What?_   “Did you have a bad dream or something?  Were you sleeping?”  It doesn’t look like it.  “What happened?  What–”

Steve doesn’t answer, surging forward and kissing him fiercely.  Bucky grunts in surprise, both with how forceful it is and with the memory of how awkward things were between them that morning.  There’s none of that now, and Steve’s kissing him like he’s never kissed him before, pushing his mouth open with his tongue and surging inside.  It’s like he’s seeking confirmation, _affirmation,_ and Bucky lets him, seeks the same because nothing feels good right now and something has to.  _Something has to._

Moments later they’re staggering to their bed.  Steve’s pushing him down, covering him with his weight.  He’s frantic, clumsy even, pulling at Bucky’s A-shirt and ripping it in the process of getting it off.  Bucky couldn’t care less.  He keeps Steve’s face to his, keeps their mouths together in a flurry of wet, frenzied need.  Steve leans back for a breath, stripping off his own t-shirt as he does, and Bucky goes right for his belt.  He makes quick work of getting Steve’s pants open and shoved down over his hips and the swell of his ass.  He doesn’t touch him more though, even if he desperately wants to and Steve’s shivering with his erection obscenely tenting his boxers.  Bucky puts aside his own needs and desires, because everything that went wrong that morning is haunting the air between them like a phantom.  “You sure about this?” he asks, afraid of the answer.  He has to know.  He needs to be _very_ sure.  “Steve?  We don’t have to if you’re still not feeling good about it.”

Abruptly Steve slides down, grabbing Bucky’s sweatpants and yanking them with him.  The sudden movement leaves Bucky gasping and reeling in a dizzying mess of arousal, alarm, and concern, the brush of the room’s cooler air against his naked body even more unsettling.  It’s not cold for more than a second because Steve’s there, and Steve’s drawing the length of him deep into his mouth without hesitation or warning, fisting the base of his manhood carefully but insistently as he does.  “Oh, fuck,” Bucky moans.  “Fuck, fuck, Steve…”

Around them the shadows go hazy, and all thoughts about Steve maybe not being in the right place emotionally to do this begin to wither.  Bucky’s heart’s pounding and he can hardly breathe the pleasure’s so good.  Too good.  It’s coiling, building in his groin, his muscles tightening up inside him as Steve alternates between teasing kisses and light swipes of his tongue before taking him deeper and sucking harder and driving him mad.  He knows Bucky as well as Bucky knows him, knows everything he likes and has him toeing the edge of release in no time at all.  Bucky whimpers, blinking blankly as he stares at the ceiling, grabbing at Steve’s hair to try and control the pace a little.  He has to fight hard against the urge to thrust into Steve’s mouth even though he knows Steve will take it, that Steve wants it and has taken it many times before.  This is happening too fast, and it feels heavy and frantic and out of control, particularly as Steve stops sucking to nibble up the large vein on the underside of Bucky’s erection and tongue at the slit.  It’s maddening, and just as he’s about to scream in frustration, Steve takes him deep again, deep enough that he’s touching the back of Steve’s throat, deep enough that Bucky can feel him swallow.  “Steve, wait…”  He tugs on Steve’s hair, but that doesn’t slow him much.  Steve’s movements are strong, purposeful.  Bucky yanks a little harder, shaking his head, shivering.  “I’m gonna…  Steve, wait!  Not like this…”

Steve pulls off with a wet sound, leaving a parting kiss on the tip before meeting Bucky’s gaze.  His eyes are teary, his lips wet and red and puffy.  “What’sa matter?” he murmurs.  He looks scared.  “Buck?”

Bucky leans up swiftly, pushing Steve back a little to gain some leverage before kissing him firmly.  He can taste hints of himself on Steve’s lips and tongue, smell himself, and there’s a darker, filthy, possessive part of his heart that’s always loved that, that Steve is his and no one else’s and _nobody_ else has Steve like this.  Eyes blown wide, a rim of blue around black, hair disheveled and skin flushed a pretty pink and panting in a way fighting for hours never does to him anymore.  “Nothin’,” he murmurs, taking a softer kiss, realizing now more than ever than everything Romanoff and Stark said…  It’s wrong.  Absolutely _wrong._   This is Steve, and he _knows_ him.  “Just don’t want to lose it so fast.  Want to make you feel good.  Never got to this morning.  Remember?  You want that?”

Steve closes his eyes and bites his lower lip.  He’s doing that hard, jabbing his teeth into it, and suddenly he’s shaking.  “Hey, easy,” Bucky comforts, kissing him to get him to stop with that.  Gently he draws that sore lip into his mouth, soothing it with a soft swipe of his tongue before letting it go and sealing Steve’s lips in a sweet kiss.  “It’s alright.  Whatever’s been bothering you, it doesn’t have to mean anything.  Let me get you out of here for a bit, huh?  Take you away?”

“Buck…”

Feeling sure again, he grasps Steve through his boxers and gives the firm, thick length of him a stroke.  Steve’s hard now.  Achingly hard, it seems.  “What do you want?  I’ll do anything.  You want me to get you off like this?  You want my mouth?  Or you want–”

“Inside,” Steve whispers, his eyes fluttering shut.  “Inside me.  _Please._ ”

Bucky smiles and kisses him again.  Then he ghosts his lips up Steve’s nose and to each closed eyelid before firmly them pressing to his brow.  “Yeah, sweetheart.  Yeah.  Anything.  Everything.”

They switch places, mouths together and hands grasping at shoulders and hips, skin to skin like even the threat of momentary physical separation is too painful.  Bucky teases Steve’s lips apart as they do, slowing everything down as he carefully explores Steve’s mouth like he hasn’t a thousand times before.  They’ve had sex a thousand times before too, across Europe in frenzied, stolen moments during the war, silently back in their apartment in Brooklyn, here in a timid rediscovery of each other.  They’ve made love countless ways, but they always come back to this, to Steve beneath him, open and inviting and taking Bucky as deeply as he can.  It reminds them both of home.  This was the way they first had sex during an unhurried night of awkward experimenting and clumsy touches and caresses and kisses and so much laughter and easy, trusting love.  Thanks to his frail body and poor heart, Steve getting it up wasn’t always easy back then, nor was him keeping it up, so whenever they did more than just squirming and rutting against each other in their bed, Bucky was the one on top.  Bucky was the one leading, the one more physically capable, the one with more experience (at least with women, as compared to Steve’s none with anyone), so it was easy to fall into it.

Now Steve has no trouble with anything.  Steve is stronger than Bucky is, healthier than he is, brimming with vitality.  He even has the opposite problem of what he used to have, capable of getting hard from almost nothing and getting off numerous times.  Yet they often come back to this, the comfort and familiarity of it.   And Steve’s body isn’t what it was when they were younger, but big or small, muscles or not, he’s always been beautiful.  He’s beautiful now, swathed in the faint light of their bedroom, skin as pale as milk, eyes so deeply blue.  He’s not relaxed though, still not the way Bucky’s seen so much in the past, not the way he should be.  Not the way Bucky wants.  “Easy,” he soothes again, nibbling at Steve’s ear just the way he did this morning and then kissing his way down his throat.  “Easy, baby doll.”

Steve shifts nervously, and Bucky’s intention to take his time and sweetly take Steve apart dissipates.  Instead he leans over to the bedside table, pulls open the drawer, and quickly procures the tube of lubricant.  Setting that to the bed next to Steve’s hip, he sets to kissing his heaving stomach, lining his abs wetly.  He mouths at him through his underwear, feeling much better about all of this at seeing how hard Steve is, how much he wants it.  Working Steve’s boxers and pants off completely, he settles in between Steve’s legs, pushing them open.  Steve’s erection is flushed red and almost dripping against his lower belly as Bucky spreads his legs even wider and tips his hips up.  “You okay?” he asks again, kissing Steve’s knee.  “You sure you want this?”

Steve’s yet feverish eyes stare hazily.  “Yeah.  Yeah.”

Bucky coats his flesh and blood fingers liberally in the lube before sliding his hand down Steve’s leg and to his ass.  He leans forward to kiss his belly more and then his shaft again, licking along it as he massages the taut muscle of Steve’s opening.  When Steve seems a little more relaxed, he works a finger inside.  Steve groans as he does, canting his hips to Bucky’s fingers and mouth, breathing shallowly.  Bucky doesn’t want to rush this; they haven’t had sex in a couple weeks, and Steve is always so damn tight thanks to the serum.  He doesn’t want to hurt him.

But it’s obvious from the way Steve’s rocking his hips and clenching the sheets and panting anxiously that he doesn’t want to wait.  He’s pushing back on Bucky’s finger, eyes roving the ceiling.  “More,” he pleads, and Bucky obliges him, adding more lube before slipping in another finger.  He thrusts deeper, stretches wider.  Steve gasps and whines, and Bucky nips and kisses and sucks at him, relentless and persistent, driving him closer and closer to orgasm.

After another couple minutes of this sweet torture, of three fingers plunging inside Steve to tease at that spot that makes him cry breathlessly over and over again, Steve gives up on helplessly throwing his head back and forth on the pillow.  He reaches for Bucky, digging his blunt fingernails into Bucky’s shoulders to the point where it’s almost painful.  “’m ready.  Ready.  Need you now.  Please, please, please,” he babbles softly.  “Please.  Not without you.”

Bucky’s not sure he’s ready, not really, but Steve knows what he can take, and Bucky can’t take this anymore.  His own erection throbs with burning need, and he spends only a second or two slathering lube over it.  He coats Steve’s entrance in it too, and Steve gasps at the cool sensation and impatiently shifts even closer until his ass is practically in Bucky’s lap with his legs splayed wide.  Bucky doesn’t torment either of them longer, hiking Steve’s muscular thighs around him as he grips Steve’s hips and slides inside him.

It always feels so hot, so good, so right.  _Home._  Bucky wants to take this slow, but he can’t make himself stop and he pushes his way inside faster and harder than he knows he should.  Steve’s grasping at him again, lifting his hips the second Bucky’s all the way in, more demanding than encouraging, and Bucky can’t ignore that, not that or how Steve’s begging.  “Please, Buck…  _Please._   Hard.  Come on.  Need to feel it.”

Bucky shakes his head, panting with pleasure and the effort of keeping still with all that heat and strength bearing down on him.  He’s worried this will hurt Steve, that it hurts him already.  “Easy, darlin’.  Take a breath.”

Steve grimaces, though whether it’s from pain or frustration, Bucky can’t tell.  He’s fucking frantic.  “No, no, please.  Please!”

Bucky can’t fight anymore, not against Steve driving him and his own desire.  He pulls back out almost entirely, only the tip of him tugging at Steve from the inside, and Steve whines almost miserably, clutching at him.  It really has to burn – Bucky _knows_ it does for him sometimes when Steve’s inside him, and he doesn’t have his serum working against them as much as Steve’s does – but Steve never complains.  He’s still asking for more in a way that seems less desperate for pleasure and more frantic for something else.

Bucky wants to give him whatever he needs.  After a couple slower, gentle thrusts that do nothing but test and antagonize them both, he sets up a harder, quicker, rougher pace.  Steve gives a shivery sigh of relief and settles into it.  Now that they have a rhythm, Bucky lets his worries go.  This is so safe and familiar, the hot clench of Steve’s body and the way Steve feels beneath him and all around him.  The smell of sex and the soft slap of skin to skin and the quiet whisper of Steve’s breath.  The pleasure arcing up his spine.  It takes a little bit of angling and swiveling to find that group of nerves inside Steve again, but Bucky does in short order, and Steve gets louder, shuddering more, moaning through gritted teeth.  He’s back to digging his fingertips viciously into Bucky’s arms, losing control of his strength. 

Bucky doesn’t care.  He _wants_ Steve to lose control, to give it up for just a bit.  To find some semblance of joy and peace.  “Come on,” he coaxes, leaning down to claim a heated kiss.  He thrusts his tongue between Steve’s parted teeth just as he rolls his hips and brushes Steve’s prostate again.  Steve practically keens, a plaintive sound that Bucky takes into his mouth and that goes straight to his own loins.  He knows just how sensitive Steve is inside, that if he plays his cards right, he can get Steve to climax like this, without a hand on him.

But he doesn’t want to draw this out or make Steve work for it or wait.  He doesn’t want to tease or play.  That’s not what this is about.  With his right hand, which is still slick with leftover lube, he reaches between them to get his fingers around Steve’s erection.  It’s hard as hell, wet, smearing against Bucky’s stomach.  Bucky strokes the way he knows Steve likes, forcing down his own driving arousal to time his thrusts with each pull and caress.  He thumbs the head a couple times, digs his thumbnail into the slit just to see Steve squirm more.  Steve’s thighs are tight to Bucky’s flanks, pressing in and holding on.  His arm is like iron around Bucky’s shoulders.  He’s close.  All of his tells are obvious to Bucky, the way he’s wincing, the way his abs are contracting and his muscles are tensing, the way he’s whining almost inaudibly with each pant.  He’s holding on, though.  It’s almost as if he’s torturing himself, riding the edge but just not able to get himself over it.

At first Bucky doesn’t get it, but then it reminds him of himself, of how he used to be when they first started having sex again.  Afraid, as if he didn’t deserve it.  He leans forward more, which makes it difficult to keep jerking Steve off, but he needs a kiss, and he needs to ground them both.  He claims Steve’s mouth, dominating, barely hanging on himself just to get Steve there before he loses it completely.  “I got you,” he promises, driving harder into Steve, pushing him faster to the precipice.  “Come on, Stevie.  It’s okay.  Let go.”

Steve shakes his head like he’s struggling, and Bucky’s too lost up in his own arousal to really think about anything else than getting Steve to come.  He needs that, needs to feel it, needs to know Steve’s feeling good.  So he squeezes Steve’s erection harder, strokes in a way that’s probably bordering on too much, and Steve arches his back into the next thrust.  Bucky takes what’s offered, kissing down his chest, grabbing a handful of Steve’s right pec with his metal hand and squeezing there, too, pinching his nipple before pulling into his mouth.  Finally Steve climaxes with a cry.  The rippling of his body around Bucky is enough to drag him right after, the burst of pleasure and euphoria so consuming that the world just whites out into a pleasant, hazy buzz.

Bucky comes back to find himself plastered on Steve’s heaving chest.  It takes him a second more to get control of his breathing, for his heart to stop pounding so fast.  He can hear Steve’s own heart racing from where his ear’s pressed to Steve’s breast.  He smiles, chuckles, pulling his hand from between them along sweat-slicked skin.  He touches Steve’s from where it’s still clenched in the sheets.  It takes a second of pressing at his fingers for him to let go and let Bucky hold his hand.  “Can’t go so long without doing this,” Bucky murmurs, kissing at the taut skin over Steve’s sternum.  “Seems dumb after seventy years, but a couple weeks are like forever.  Feel like my brain’s meltin’.”

“Sorry, Buck.”

That’s not said lightly at all.  There’s something odd in Steve’s voice, something small and ashamed and very afraid.  Instantly Bucky peels his face from Steve’s chest and looks up to find those baby blue eyes welling with tears.  “Steve?  Jesus, Steve, what’s wrong?”

Steve shifts uncomfortably, moving his arm from Bucky’s back to cover his eyes.  “Real sorry.”

“What are you apologizin’ for?”  Bucky pulls himself free of Steve’s body and gets on his knees between his legs.  He takes Steve’s arm and pulls, but Steve fights, stiff and unyielding.  Eventually Steve lets him see, and Bucky shakes his head in newly mounting worry.  “Hell, baby, what’s the matter?”

Steve burns red.  “Fucked everything up.”

“What are you talkin’ about?” Bucky demands, and Steve bites his kiss-swollen lower lip again, shaking his head.  “No, come on.  Tell me–”

“Just don’t let me go?” Steve whispers.  “Please?”

Bucky doesn’t understand, and now that deep, disturbing concern’s back to roiling his stomach again, shoving away any sense of satisfaction and contentment.  “Yeah.  Yeah, honey, sure.  Just let me get something to clean you up fir–”

“No.”  Steve clutches him.  “Don’t go.”

He’s never seen Steve quite like this, this… _low_.  Open. Vulnerable and scared.  “No.  I’m not goin’.  ’Course I’m not goin’.  Is this about what Stark said?  ’Cause he’s being a fucking asshole, Steve, and I’m not–”

“No.  No, it’s…  Just…”  Steve stares at him, and Bucky swears he’s seeing a fissure in his soul through his broken eyes.  “Stay with me?”

Bucky reaches down over the side of their bed and grabs one of their shirts.  He uses that to wipe off Steve’s release from their stomachs and his from between Steve’s legs.  Tossing the shirt, he leans down for a kiss, one that tastes like sweat and tears.  Steve kisses back desperately, wrapping his legs around Bucky’s hips and his arms across his back, keeping him as close as possible.  Bucky lets him cling, lets him be possessive and needy and whatever else this is because something’s still not right.

But he doesn’t press.  He just gathers Steve in his arms and kisses his sweaty forehead and rubs his metal fingers up and down Steve’s spine where he’s spooned around his hip.  Steve settles.  Finally, he settles.  “Fucked it up,” he murmurs again after a long while.  “Fallin’ apart.  Everythin’.”

“Stevie?”

“Can’t hold it together.  Can’t stop it.”

“You don’t have to,” Bucky hushes, kissing his hair again.  “You’re doing the best you can.  It’s all anyone can ask.  And you’re doing it, Steve.  You’re doing fine keeping the team together.  You always have.  You always will.”  Steve shivers and sobs softly.  “Darlin’, don’t you worry about whatever they want.  Shhh.  Just sleep.”

Their room is dark and quiet after that.  It’s not until Steve has drifted off and is breathing evenly into his neck that Bucky realizes maybe he wasn’t talking about the team at all.

* * *

_One week later_

Bucky wakes up with a start.  He hears a strangled gasp, a whimper, and it’s so damn dark that he doesn’t realize where he is or what’s happening at first.  As crazy as it is, for a second or two, he thinks he’s the one making those sounds.  He’s the one murmuring nonsense in a low, frantic voice.  He’s the one shuddering so hard the bed feels like it’s shaking apart.  He’s the one suffering in the throes of a nightmare.

But it’s not him.  It’s Steve.

Steve’s twisted up in the sheets.  He’s on his side, turned from Bucky, curled up in a protective ball with his head buried under his arms and in the pillows.  Sweat glistens all over him, thick in his hair and coating his neck.  His t-shirt is soaked through.  He’s laboring for air, quaking like he’s having convulsions, writhing against unseen demons and tormentors.  He’s deep in hell.

Bucky can’t stand it.  He sits up, pushing the sheets and comforter away, and turns to touch Steve, to wake him up.  Then he hesitates, because he’s been where Steve is.  He’s suffered just like this so fucking often, and though it’s a lot better now, it seemed in the beginning that this was their night _every_ night.  Every time Bucky slept at all, even something so seemingly innocuous as an afternoon nap, it ended up like this.  And Steve woke him up, and he was so trapped between the hell of his past and the chaos of his present, and he just outright attacked.  That led to a load of bruises and terror and panicked tears, but Steve always got through to him.  _Always._

He can’t do anything less.  “Steve?  Steve?”  He grasped Steve’s shoulder and tried to pull him closer, but once again Steve was stiff and unmoving.  “Steve!  Stevie, baby, wake up.”  Steve doesn’t.  He’s whispering something, but even with Bucky’s enhanced hearing, he can’t tell what.  “Steve, come on.  It’s me.  You’re having a nightmare.  You gotta wake up.  Wake up.”  Bucky tries harder to get him on his back so he can see his face, but he ends up more on top of Steve, and that ends up being a fucking _really bad idea_ because Steve’s eyes snap open and his eyes fill with horror and rage as they focus on Bucky’s hair-shrouded face and metal arm across his chest.

And the next thing Bucky knows, he’s on his back on the bed, hitting hard enough that bedframe cracks and the mattress tips as its end crashes to the floor.  Steve drags him as they fall, and they hit the floor with Steve on top, pinning him, Steve’s right hand balled into a fist and raised to strike and his left clenched around Bucky’s throat.  The urge to fight and defend and _kill_ rises up inside Bucky just like that, and it’s by the skin of his teeth that he makes himself limp despite the fact Steve’s practically choking him.  “Steve, no!”  He can barely get the words out with his larynx being crushed, but he does because he has to stop this without hitting or hurting.  He has to.  “Steve, it’s me!  Stop!  It’s Bucky!  _It’s Bucky!”_

“You’re the Winter Soldier,” Steve hisses, and the fury in his eyes is fucking _horrifying_.  There’s no recognition there, not even a hint of it, and Bucky shakes his head as much as he can.  Steve’s teeth are gritted together.  “You took him.  You killed him!”

“No.  No, no, no, Steve, no, I’m here.  It’s over.”

“Never over,” Steve hisses.  “It’s never over!  _You killed him!”_

“Killed who?”

“Bucky.”  Bucky’s heart stops.  “James Barnes.  You fucking know who I’m talking about!  You killed him!”

Bucky has no idea what horror Steve’s living, but it breaks his heart to see the tears in Steve’s eyes, the grief there, the _certainty._   He grabs Steve’s fingers around his throat, pulling them away because his lungs are burning.  “No,” he gasps, his vision graying without oxygen.  “No, Steve.  HYDRA didn’t kill me.  They don’t have me anymore.  HYDRA’s gone!  You saved me!  Brought me back!”

Steve shakes his head, but his grip loosens ever so slightly.  “No, that’s not…  I saw him fall.  I let him fall!”

 _Jesus._ “No, I’m _here._   You didn’t…  Please, please…  Look at me.  Look in my eyes.”  Steve does.  He blinks.  “Look at me.  You remember my eyes.  I remember yours.  I’m right here.”

Steve stares a second more, fist still threateningly raised, other hand still fighting to strangle him.  Bucky waits, stays calm and pliant, and prays Steve comes to his senses like he hasn’t prayed for much before.

Steve does.  He blinks again, and Bucky can practically see the nightmare release him and reality sharply shift into focus.  Realization hits Steve like a physical force, like a fucking freight train running him down.  His face goes slack with dawning horror, the color draining from his cheeks and his eyes widening, and then he’s scrambling off of Bucky and staggering to the bathroom.  The sound of retching follows.

Bucky sucks in a desperate breath.  His throat’s burning.  _Christ._   He rolls to his side, pushes himself to shaking feet, and runs after Steve.  Bursting into the bathroom, he blinks at the bright lights and sees Steve clutching the toilet, throwing up miserably.  “Holy shit,” he whispers.  He’s seen Steve vomit plenty of times in the past, but not since the serum and not like this.  It doesn’t really cross his mind that he still doesn’t know if Steve’s completely with it.  He just rushes to his side.  “Steve, Steve, easy…”

Steve’s wild glance stops him in his tracks.  “Don’t!  Just stay away!”  He turns back to the bowl, but he doesn’t throw up again.  He just leans over it, breathing shakily, eyes closed as he very visibly fights to get himself together and quell his nausea.  Helplessly Bucky watches.  He doesn’t know what to do.

A couple of long minutes sluggishly crawl away.  It’s like a torturous eternity, filled with nothing but Steve’s heavy sighs and Bucky’s heart booming in his ears.  Finally Steve spits a couple times and moves back.  Bucky risks a few steps toward the vanity, giving Steve a wide berth.  He grabs one of the disposable cups from the dispenser there and fills it with water from the tap.  Silently he hands Steve the cup.  Steve stares at it blankly before taking it.  “Thanks,” he murmurs, and he sucks down some of the water before swishing out his mouth.

 _What the hell._   Bucky stares, waiting another few seconds as Steve flushes the toiled and tries to put himself back together.  “We going to talk about this?” he finally asks, trying to mask his fear and keep himself calm.  Steve glances at him, face sweaty and flushed, eyes wild.  His gaze darts to the bruises on Bucky’s neck and he quickly turns away.  Bucky scowls lightly and shakes his head.  “Yeah, they’ll heal.  That’s what you always told me whenever I did something like that to you.  Or worse.”

Steve sags into the wall beside the toilet.  “At least you had a hell of a good reason,” he mutters.

“Oh, don’t you dare pull that shit with me, Steve!  Just because you didn’t go through what I went through doesn’t mean what you feel is less important.”  Steve shudders, frowning and shaking his head.  Bucky doesn’t let him get away with that.  “I _know_ something’s wrong.  I’ve still got a boatload of my own problems, but I’m not blind.  _Nothing’s_ been right for weeks.”

“Don’t,” Steve warns, still looking away.

“No.  We need to _talk_ about this!  You wouldn’t let me get away with what you’re doing now, would you?  You wouldn’t if you were in my place, which you _have_ been for months and months so I know. You wouldn’t stand here and let me push you away!”

Blue eyes fill with frustration.  “What do you want from me?”

“I want you to admit that you’re hurting.  Between Ross and his bullshit and Stark and _his_ bullshit and the media pushing us and you running the team and keeping me sane and all of this, Stevie…  _All_ of it.  It’s too much.  You can’t do it all.  You need help.”

“I don’t need anything.”

“You don’t even see how much you’re bleeding,” Bucky says, trying to keep his voice from shaking.  “You don’t.  You’re bleeding _everywhere_.”  Steve shakes his head but doesn’t argue.  In the last week, everything has just gotten so much worse.  All the worrisome behaviors before, the hints and signs that Steve’s not doing as well as he’s acting…  “I can’t ignore it anymore.  You’re having nightmares.  This one is just the latest, and don’t lie to me.”  Steve doesn’t try.  “You’re not taking care of yourself.  You’re not eating.”  Not really.  Bucky can’t remember the last time he’s seen Steve have a real meal.  Lately they’ve rarely been able to eat together with Steve’s chaotic schedule, and it’s not like Bucky ever feels like _cooking_ anything, but he used to find Steve at the dinette table with a bowl of cereal or at the breakfast bar late in the evening, shoveling in take-out.  On occasion, they’ve even been able to share breakfast or dinner.  Not anymore.  And Steve _looks_ like he’s not eating.  Maybe it’s Bucky’s imagination, but he seems thinner, more drawn and pale.  “And you’re not sleeping.”  That’s true too, now that he’s thinking about it.  Steve requires less sleep than a normal person thanks to the serum, but Bucky can’t remember the last time he’s really seen Steve sleep restfully.  Actually, he can.  That night they had sex last week.  Steve fell asleep in his arms, but when Bucky woke up early the next morning, he was gone and Bucky was alone in their bed.  That was it.  More to the point, though, he really can’t remember the last time he’s seen Steve look well-rested.  It’s been forever, he feels.

And it’s been forever since Steve’s been _Steve._   Easy smiles and cool confidence and undaunted.  Tender and patient.  Loving and strong and brave.  _Captain America._ There’s nothing of Captain America in Steve right now, nothing but the physique and even that doesn’t seem half as powerful without the good heart, strong will, and pure soul behind it.  Bucky crouches in front of him.  “You work all day, from dawn until late.  Every day.  That’s too much and you’re doing it too hard, running yourself ragged.  You used to do this back home, too.  Back in Brooklyn?”  Steve looks up.  His eyes are teary again and steeped in pain.  “I remember that.  I remember watching you trying to carry the whole world on your shoulders even when your body couldn’t handle it.  Just because it can now doesn’t mean you need to do this.”

Steve winces, tears spilling down his cheeks.  “What choice is there?” he whispers.

Bucky hates seeing him like this.  He’ll do just about anything to ease Steve’s pain.  He’s always known that, but this is the first time in a great while that he’s feeling quite this helpless.  “You can’t carry it all.  You can’t do this to yourself.  Between training and fighting and handling all of this, you’re hurting yourself.  You’re _bleeding_ , Steve, and it can’t go on.”

“It’s my job to run the team,” Steve insists.  “It’s my responsibility.  When things go wrong, when people get hurt or we mess up, it’s _my_ mistake.”

“No, it’s not,” Bucky returns, and the dichotomy between Steve and Stark strikes him all over again, Stark who’s doing everything imaginable to mitigate his own guilt and Steve who seems to think it’s his solemn duty to bear all the blame for everything.  Stark who’d rather tie his own hands than risk screwing up again and Steve who can’t fathom sitting back and letting someone else do more than he does.  “It’s not your mistake.  It’s _everyone’s_ mistake.  And sometimes it ain’t even a mistake.  Sometimes there are only bad choices.  Sometimes you can’t save everyone.”

That hits a nerve.  Suddenly Steve is standing, pushing him back, rushing out of the bathroom.  Bucky reels, more from surprise than the shove.  “Steve?  Steve!  Steve, wait!  Wait!”

They’re rushing through the bedroom, Bucky right on Steve’s heels.  Steve glares over his shoulder.  “Drop it.”

“No!” Bucky shouts.  Christ, he’s trying so hard not to get angry, but Steve’s being so fucking difficult.  “No, Steve, come on.  Come on!  Don’t shut me out again!  This isn’t a one-way street, you know!  You can’t expect me to just watch you fall apart!”

Steve whirled, eyes dark and cold with fury.  It was that morning last week all over again, only now the emotions seem even rawer, even closer to the surface.  “Leave it alone, Buck.  I can handle it.”  Bucky opens his mouth to argue further, but he doesn’t know what to say.  He doesn’t know if he _should_ say anything, anyway.  Steve’s never been like this, this agitated and stubbornly guarded.  He’s glaring at Bucky, and Bucky backs up into the wall next to the bedroom door.  There’s a warning bright in Steve’s eyes and radiating from his tense form.  Even still, Bucky thinks he looks like a cornered dog, an abused one, ready to bite because he’s been too hurt to tell the good from the bad anymore.  “You don’t have to worry,” Steve says again.  “I mean it.”

Then he’s gone, grabbing his jeans and shoes as he stalks past their bed.  Bucky breathes heavily, paces, grabs at his hair, struggles to control his rage.  He can’t.  He clenches his metal fingers into a fist before punching a hole right through the wall.

* * *

He doesn’t go back to sleep.  It’s probably stupid to be waiting up for Steve to come back, but he is.  He sits at the dinette in their spacious kitchen, the light overhead the only illumination in the darkened space, nursing a cup of coffee that’s slowly going cold.  There have been times like this where he’s wished he could drown his sorrows in booze, where he’s desired nothing so much as finding _something_ to take the edge off the pain.  It’s not a healthy mindset, but it’s not like alcohol or drugs have any effect on him anyway, so he figures it’s okay to think about it once in a while.  How nice it would be to be numb.  Again, it’s like wanting the comfort of the programming back, the goddamn chair no matter how much it damaged him or the deep, dreamless sleep of cryostasis.  He knows now that it’s not right, that so much of life is dealing with the things that hurt.

And Steve’s not doing that.  Bucky’s sure of that now.  Absolutely, positively fucking _certain._

There’s a knock at the doors to the suite.  Bucky’s picks up the soft rapping instantly, and he frowns in confusion.  Steve wouldn’t knock, so it has to be someone else.  For a second he worries Stark would come in the middle of the fucking night to evict him, and that gets his heart pounding, that and the Winter Soldier’s training that always springs to the surface when he’s startled and strained.  It’s stupid to be afraid though, so he gets up and pads out to the living area on bare feet.  One of his hoodies is there on the couch where he left it the other night, and he puts that on to hide his chest.

Zipping it up, he opens the door, and he’s more than surprised to see Wanda.  “What are you doing here?”

Wanda’s always pale, waiflike even, but she seems more so the last three weeks.  Bucky forgets sometimes that she’s human behind her powers, and he knows better than anyone how devastating a gunshot wound can be.  Her eyes are deeply brown, her hair loose on her shoulders.  She’s dressed in pajamas underneath a robe, which only makes this all the stranger.  “Has he come back?”

Bucky winces.  He’s seen a lot in his life, but the craziness factor has definitely increased since Steve brought him to the Avengers complex.  The fact that Wanda can… well, not _read_ minds exactly but _sense_ things still throws him for a loop.  Bucky knows she can directly look into other people’s thoughts; she’s done it to him in the past to help him, and she used her telepathy against the team during the Ultron debacle to manipulate them.  It’s sort of an unspoken understanding that she doesn’t go snooping in their heads now without their permission.  Wanda’s too good a person to do that.

Maybe she’s been peeking into Steve’s, though.  “How’d you know?”

Sheepishly, Wanda frowns.  “Can I come in?”

Bucky feels like a class-A jerk for making a lady stand outside.  He moves to let her enter, pressing the wall panel by the door to turn on the lights.  Soft, golden illumination chases the deep shadows of the dead of night away.  Bucky just stares at Wanda as she looks around.  He doesn’t think she’s ever been here before.  Any time he’s needed help, it’s always been somewhere controlled, in the gym usually.  A wide, open space with Steve and the others watching in case Wanda accidentally triggers the Soldier.  This feels weird.  Then he realizes he’s still being a rude lout.  “You want to sit?  Something to drink?  I already have some coffee made.”  That’s probably stupid considering the time of night.

Wanda just shakes her head.  She pulls her robe tighter around herself, and Bucky finds his eyes darting to her chest, to where she was shot.  He wonders if it’s scarring.  “No, thanks.  I’m fine.”

The silence quickly becomes stiff and awkward.  Wanda’s still glancing about, not that there’s much to see beyond a few of Steve’s books and a sketchpad or two on the coffee table.  Neither Bucky nor Steve has done much to turn this place into a home.  Steve hasn’t even been drawing lately.  _Another_ sign something’s off.

Eventually Wanda sighs.  She closes her eyes, struggling with what she wants to say.  Then she speaks.  “In his dream, you’re both on a train.  There’s an explosion, and you tumble out the side of the train car.  You’re falling.  He can’t get to you, surrounded by enemies, and when he finally fights through them, he sees the Winter Soldier dragging you down by the legs.  He’s panicked, reaching down as far as he can, trying to hold onto you.  He gets your hand in his, your left one, but the Soldier’s right there, pulling you down into a ravine.  No one lets go, and the weight’s too much, and your arm…”

Bucky looks down, where his arm was torn away, where the prosthetic is now.  He clenches the gleaming metal fist before he can stop himself and tries not to picture what she’s saying.  His memories of the fall from the train are very hazy.  He recalls blood in the snow, his body being dragged and looking down and seeing the red smearing all over pristine white.  That’s enough to make him shiver.  “Steve’s never been much for subtlety,” he quips, but the joke sounds as weak as he feels.

“No.  He dreams about that a lot.  He dreams about you constantly and always with so much pain and regret.  So much _guilt_.”  She exhales slowly.  “I try not to pry, but his dreams are… _loud_ , I guess is a good word for it.  I think it’s because he keeps so much inside.  When he sleeps, he can’t control it anymore, and it pours out.”

Bucky’s embarrassed that he has to ask.  “How… how long has this been going on?”

Wanda’s eyes fill with worry.  “As long as I’ve known him.  It wasn’t so constant when I first noticed.  He got rest, and when he had nightmares, I could shut them out.  They weren’t so serious.  At least I thought so.  But lately…  It’s like it’s been piling up, crushing him slowly.  It wasn’t every night.  Now it’s so much worse.  I’m not sure he’s slept in weeks.”

“Before you got hurt?”

“Yes.  He dreams…  Now he dreams about losing me, too.  Losing Sam and Natasha and the others.  Losing Stark.  He dreams about the war.  He sees men die.  He sees HYDRA winning and the Red Skull destroying New York.  He sees the Winter Soldier killing him, torturing you.  He sees…”  She closes her eyes.  “It’s not worth saying.”

Bucky closes his eyes.  All the guilt and regret around which he’s been dancing since the battle in India…  “I should’ve realized,” he says, and now he does clench his fist.  He wants to break something just to be useful, powerful.  HYDRA taught him violence equates to usefulness and purpose, and right now he feels like he has neither.  “For months all I cared about was myself.  Romanoff said it’s like waking up.”  _Waking up and seeing, only the more you see, the more you realize it’s all wrong._   “Damn it.”

“It’s no more your fault than it’s mine,” Wanda says.

Bucky’s not sure that’s true at all.  He’s understanding more and more that his place in life has always been at Steve’s side and part of his purpose has always been protecting Steve.  It’s engrained in him, down so deep that HYDRA couldn’t beat or burn or freeze it out of him.  It was what drove him to stay his hand on the helicarrier, what made him pull Steve from the river, what convinced him to trust Steve when Steve found him in Bucharest.  He and Steve protect each other, save each other.  Love each other, then and now and always.

He doesn’t say that, though, and Wanda’s speaking more.  “I can feel how much he’s hurting.  I – I trust him, want to give him his space…  But I can’t.  And I can’t ignore it anymore.”  She sighs.  “Back in Chennai, in the lab, right before I was hurt…  There were soldiers coming in everywhere when the bomb was going off.”

“He said he got overwhelmed,” Bucky says.  Suddenly he feels cold.  “Said there were too many.”

“There were a lot, but he was handling it.  And I was handling the bomb.  Seemed like everything was fine, only…”  She wraps her arms tighter around her torso, and Bucky knows why.  Her eyes glaze in pain for a moment before she focuses on Bucky again.  “When it happened, I fell, and I could have sworn…  I don’t know.  He was standing there.  Not moving.  Not even fighting.  Just _standing_ there.  Eyes blank, like even though he was looking right at me, he couldn’t see me.  I called to him, but he didn’t move, didn’t answer.  Just stood there and stared.”

“Are you sure?” Bucky asks softly.

Wanda shakes her head.  “It’s a blur, to be honest, and it happened so fast.  But it’s bothering me enough that I’m telling you.”

“Did you tell anyone else?”

She shakes her head again.  “He’s in trouble.  I can feel it.  You feel it.”  Bucky nods.  “We have to do something.”

He knows that, too.  It’s undeniable.  Anything he’s told himself over the last few weeks…  It’s all placating bullshit.  The memory of Steve’s fingers jabbing into his throat burns like acid.  “Why now?”  He hears himself ask the question.  He’s not sure the answer matters, but he feels like he needs to know.  “What happened?  Did…”  _Did something cause this?  Did I cause it?_

“I don’t think there’s anything specific,” Wanda answers.  Her eyes are bright with tears.  “I’d say it’s – what is it they say in this country?  It goes with the territory.”  Bucky jerks.  _Life’s not fair.  He can take it._   “This thing…  With you, it was like a fire burning out of control from the start.  The second you started to recover yourself, it was unleashed and unhinged, and we’ve slowly been putting it out.  Now it’s down to hotspots, I guess you would call them.  Little pockets where things still burn.”  She shakes her head, like she’s remembering those things, everything she felt and saw when she helped to eradicate HYDRA’s triggers.  “With him, it’s smoldering, slowly becoming hotter and stronger, slowly growing.  Like an ember that’s feeding on his pain, feeding on his guilt.  It’s getting bigger the longer it goes on unstopped.  At first it was quiet, and we could all ignore it, including him.  Now it’s an inferno.”

Bucky doesn’t like how that sounds.  He can’t breathe.  Wanda frowns and blinks back her tears.  “No, no.  It’s…  It’s an infection.  And how it happened doesn’t matter anymore.  In the end it’s the same.  He’s given too much of himself, dismissed it too long.  We need to treat it.”

“I keep telling him,” Bucky whispers, terrified and horrified and so sick.

Wanda nods.  “I said something to him, too.  Last week.  He smiled and told me he was fine and that I should concentrate on getting better myself.  I think Sam’s said something to him, too.  And Natasha.”

“He’s not listening,” Bucky says.  He stares into the shadows, at the couch where Steve held him through countless sleepless nights, where they snuggled a few weeks ago while they watched movies, where Steve sketched with his cold feet buried under Bucky’s warm thighs and laughed as Bucky told him stories from their youth, humoring him because Steve _knew_ all these tales but they seemed new to Bucky and Bucky was excited to tell him.  Where Bucky watched Steve sit in the early morning light a few days after Steve brought him here, watching the golden hues wash over his features and realizing he _knew_ this man more than he knew anything about himself.  Where he finally felt safe enough to let Steve touch him again, kiss him and love him again.  Underneath all those moments, _this_ was always growing like a tumor.  _Infection.  Inferno.  Christ, Stevie, what are you doing to yourself?  It’s not worth this.  It’s not._

“I don’t think he’ll listen to any of us,” Wanda says softly.  “But he might listen to _all_ of us.”

Bucky turns to her.  “All of us?”

“Maybe.”

 _All of us._   Bucky thinks about that, thinks about the fractures in the team, in this mismatched group of superheroes that’s crumbling under the weight of doubt and guilt.  He thinks about what Stark said last week, the endless rhetoric and debate about serving the greater good versus free will and autonomy.  He thinks about the impact he’s had here, the stress he’s added.  The press and the public and protecting the world without SHIELD.  None of that matters, not really.

Nothing matters other than getting Steve help.

* * *

Bucky spends the rest of the night and most of the next morning waiting for Steve to come back.  He never does.  He’s okay; Bucky has been able to track his whereabouts with the complex’s computer (it tracks everyone, which is a little Orwellian – back to _1984_ again).  He himself doesn’t have access to that level of security, but he knows Steve’s codes.  And Steve’s _fine._   He’s been in the gym and then out on the grounds once the sun came up, presumably watching the sunrise.  Wool-gathering or who knows what.  Bucky lets him have his solitude, even if he spends the long hours worrying and hoping Steve will return and collapse into his arms and beg for help if only to spare him from what he knows he has to do.

But Steve doesn’t because Steve’s a stubborn asshole.  So Bucky decides to be a stubborn asshole, too.

As soon as it’s late enough in the morning to be at least somewhat proper, he’s walking down the hallways of the complex.  There’s no one around, but Bucky still feels like an intruder, like someone is watching him and judging him for so much as showing his face, which he finally considered shaving like looking neater and more like a gentleman will mean something.  He also showered and dressed in a nicer pair of jeans and shirt.  That’s about the best he can do for seeming presentable.  It’s not like he owns a suit (although he supposes he could have borrowed Steve’s, but they’re not built the same, and that feels wrong anyway).  It’s also the first time he’s tried to look nice since leave in London in winter 1945 when he and Steve dressed in their service uniforms and enjoyed a night on the town as “buddies” (of course, the Commandos figured out about them – and honestly, it seemed crazy to think they wouldn’t considering the number of near-death experiences they all shared and the endless parade of nights sleeping together in close quarters).  Their unit bought them a room in a little shitty inn in one of London’s less reputable areas and paid the owners off to turn a blind eye.  It was simple, but it’s still among the nicest gifts they’ve ever been given.  Bucky fell from the train about two weeks later, and that one night where he had shined his shoes and put pomade in his hair and even found a bit of cologne from somewhere in the war-ravaged city…  It was the last night he and Steve were together before everything was ruined.

Yeah, a shower, a shave, and some clean clothes is all he can manage right now.  He’s _not_ that strapping, charming young man in a sergeant’s uniform, not any more.  He was hardly that back then after nearly three years of the hell of war, not to mention spending time as a POW in Zola’s awful clutches.  And Stark’s not going to be fooled no matter what he does, no matter what mask he tries to don.  So he may as well be honest and hope for the best.

Stark’s there, at least.  The billionaire flew in last night for a late meeting with Steve and Romanoff about equipment upgrades.  Hopefully the topic stayed confined to that, though Steve came back even more tense than normal so Bucky doubted it.  At any rate, Stark stayed the night, so said the computer, so Bucky should be able to see him.

Though whether or not Stark will be civil enough to actually _talk_ to him has yet to be determined.  It doesn’t seem too likely when the other man answers his door to find Bucky there in the hallway outside his private suite.  Stark’s in a robe, blinking sleep from his eyes (for fuck’s sake, it’s not _that_ early), and once he focuses on Bucky, he absolutely scowls.  “You have got to be fucking kidding me,” he grouses.  “Get the fuck out of here.”  He goes to slam the door.

Despite what Bucky’s done to the people Stark loves, despite how powerful he is and how unhinged he used to be, Stark’s never seemed outwardly afraid of him.  That’s what flashes in his eyes now – _fear_ – as Bucky grabs the door and stops it.  Bucky feels guilty for all of a second before he realizes that fear, even fear that hurts, may help him here.  “I want to talk to you.”

Stark glances between the metal hand on the door and Bucky’s face.  He seems like he’s weighing his options.  “I have Iron Man.”  That’s very clearly a threat, but Stark feels the need to elaborate anyway.  “I can summon the suit and blow you to fucking kingdom come in a heartbeat.  Let go of my door and _leave._ ”

Bucky forces himself to be calm and quiet.  “I _need_ to talk to you.”

Those dark brown eyes narrow into a hateful glare.  “What could you possibly have to say to me?  ‘Sorry for bashing your dad’s head in and choking your mom to death?’  Or ‘my bad for murdering your parents?  Oops?’  A, you should have said that _months_ ago after you got your head screwed on straight, and B, fuck you.  Unless you’re stopping by to _thank_ me for harboring your fugitive ass, get lost.”

 “Please,” Bucky says.  “Please.  Just a couple minutes are all I’m asking.”  He’s not above begging. “ _Please._ ”

For a terribly long moment, Stark just keeps staring at him.  Bucky doesn’t back down, doesn’t give an inch.  He feels like this is his only chance to help Steve, so he can’t do anything less than succeed.  And maybe Stark has no reason to listen to him.  Lord knows he’s done nothing to deserve the other man’s trust.  But he has to try.

Finally Stark sighs.  “I’m not letting you in.”

“That’s fine.”

“So talk.”

 _Thank God.  Alright._   Bucky almost melts in his relief.  He takes a deep breath.  “It’s about Steve.”

Stark frowns.  “No, really?  That’s a fucking surprise.”  Now Bucky glowers, and Stark has the decency to look a little ashamed.  His hard visage cracks, and he looks down.  “Alright, what about him?”

It shouldn’t feel like such a victory.  Bucky tries to gather his thoughts.  No matter how uncomfortable this is and how ill-equipped he feels, he has to do this.  He has to be civil and courteous.  He has to be Steve’s advocate.  “He needs help.”

“Don’t we all,” Stark says, but again he seems to realize that vitriol is misplaced right now.  “What does he need help with?  And why isn’t he asking?”

How can Stark be so smart yet so fucking blind?  _Willful ignorance._   There’s a ton of that going around.  “He’s not asking.  That _is_ the problem.  He’s not taking care of himself.  He doesn’t see how low he’s getting.”

Stark’s confused.  It’s a weird look on him.  “He seems fine.  Seemed fine last night.  Seemed fine yesterday and the day before that and the one before that.  He’s fine.”

“He’s _not_ fine,” Bucky says adamantly.  “The fact that he seems that way doesn’t mean anything.”

Irately, Stark sighs.  All the sudden he’s moving away from the door, and Bucky doesn’t know if that’s supposed to be an invitation to come in despite Stark’s earlier refusals.  He takes it all the same, stepping inside Stark’s suite.  It’s even bigger than theirs, bigger than any of the living quarters he’s seen, but he notices the same, sad thing despite how nice and huge and airy it is.  Aside from the sleek, modern décor, there’s nothing of Stark in the place.  Not that Bucky would be able to recognize Stark’s tastes if he saw them, but it sure as hell doesn’t look like anyone’s living there.  “Talk,” Stark orders again, sitting on the arm of one of the leather couches.

Bucky doesn’t venture in any further than the door.  He draws another deep breath through his nose.  “He’s not eating.  He’s not sleeping.  He’s having nightmares.”

“Don’t we all.”  The repetition feels nothing but insulting.  Bucky doesn’t react though, even if he’s bristling inside.  That’s the same thing Natasha said.  And he knows it’s true about Stark.  He knows Stark went through hell in Afghanistan, that he suffered in the wake of the Battle of New York.  Steve told him.  It obviously doesn’t foster any sympathy.  “Look, Rogers can handle himself.  He’s been handling himself just fine since the big thaw.  He’s got it all under control.”

Bucky is so goddamn sick and tired of hearing that.  He’s starting to feel like he’s screaming at the top of his lungs and no one can hear him.  “No, he’s not.  Christ, listen to me.  Please.”

“He’s the same as he always is–”

“He’s dissociating.”  Stark’s eyes widen just a bit, and Bucky knows he’s hit home.  He nods.  “Yeah.  It’s happening more and more.  I’ve seen it.  I think…”  He knows he’s taking a gamble here, and the repercussions can be huge, considering whose camp Stark’s in.  Still, this can’t go on.  “I think he froze up in India.  I think that’s why Wanda was shot.”  Stark curses softly under his breath and looks away.  Bucky feels terrible, betraying Steve like this, but he keeps talking.  “He had a flashback maybe.  I don’t know.  Wanda doesn’t know either, but _something_ happened.  Stark, you have to do something.  You have to bench him.”

Stark’s mouth falls open limply.  “Come again?”

Bucky summons greater mettle.  He has to go forward now, has to be clear.  “You have to relieve him of duty.  Get him to stop, to rest.  _Bench him._   This can’t go on.  He needs a break, medical leave, _something._ Please, he’s hurting himself.  He could get someone else hurt.  He could–”

“Ah, fuck,” Stark hisses.  He stands straight, turning around and scrubbing a hand through the disarrayed mess of his short brown hair.  His posture exudes tension and frustration.  “Fucking hell.  You’re sure?”

“Of course, I’m sure.  I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.”

“And you think _I_ can do something about this?”

“I think you have to.  Aren’t you…”  Bucky fights to put the right term on it and settles with what he knows.  “You’re his second in command.”

Stark looks even more pissed off.  “This isn’t the army.  We’re not soldiers.”

“We always had a chain of command,” Bucky says firmly, “so if a superior officer fell, someone else took over.  Don’t tell me that’s not you.”

“It’s not.  I’m a civilian noncombatant.”

There’s that garbage again.  “Steve’s twisted himself into knots over your opinions ever since the Avengers formed, and _now_ you’re trying to tell me that you don’t have any power?  I call bullshit on that, Stark.”  For a second he thinks maybe he’s pushing too far, but Stark doesn’t explode on him.  He just stands there and breathes, stiff as a wall.  Bucky sighs.  “If you’re not his second in command and not calling any of the shots with the team, then you’re his friend.  He sure as hell thinks you are.”

“And what do you think?” Stark snaps.  He shakes his head, flustered.  “Christ, this is all we fucking need right now…”

“Steve _needs_ a break!”

“And I need to hold this team together!  You think I want Ross all over us?  Hell no.  But I don’t see how else to go forward, and I don’t think it’s a bad thing to have someone helping us call the shots.  You don’t think I’ve seen how this has weighed on Steve?  On Widow?  On Barton and Wilson.  I’ve noticed.”

“I don’t see how that’s relevant–”

“This whole thing is a fucking balancing act.  Ross is a bastard, and he wants us under his heel.  If we come willingly, maybe we’ll have more control.  If we act cooperative, maybe it’ll be easier on everyone. And I need to show we have power and stability in order to negotiate without looking like a straw man.”

“That’s not important!”

“No, it _is_ important,” Stark counters.  “It is.  And if Ross finds out Captain America is leading the team psychologically compromised–”

“He can’t lead the team,” Bucky insists, “so fucking take over!  That’s what I’m asking you to do!”  Stark stares at him again like that doesn’t make sense.  Maybe it doesn’t.  Bucky doesn’t know.  Everything he’s seen of the inner workings and dynamics of the Avengers has been filtered through Steve, and Steve gives everyone a fair shake, but damn it all if he understands what the fuck is going on here, why Stark seems so reluctant to actually _be_ an Avenger again.  “Look, Stark, you don’t trust me and I don’t trust you.  We’ve got bad blood between us, and Lord knows it’s warranted.  But I’m here asking – _begging_ – you to put that to the side for a second because Steve needs help.  Are you his friend?  Are you?”  Stark looks ashamed, cheeks flushing a little as he averts his eyes again.  “If you are, the politics of this whole mess should not matter.  I know the best-case scenario for you is he comes to your side, signs whatever Ross wants him to sign, falls in line with what you want and neatly brings the team under his hand when he does it so you can all serve the greater good.  I know.  And I’m not sure that’s not for the best.  Maybe it is.”

Stark’s expression softens and he meets Bucky’s gaze again.  Bucky exhales slowly.  “But that’s _not relevant._   It can’t matter right now.  Steve needs to sit out for a while until he gets serious help.  You don’t have to like me or think I’m anything more than a murderer–”  His voice almost cracks but he stops it in time.  “–to agree with me now.  All you need to know is that I love him.  I have loved him my whole life, so much that _that’s_ all I knew when HYDRA took everything else away, and I’m here asking you for help on his behalf because he’s silently destroying himself.”

The room goes quiet.  Stark’s watching him, and he’s watching Stark.  Neither of them speak, and neither of them look away.  Two stern faces and two sets of hard, judgmental eyes.  There’s nothing in common between them, nothing except maybe this.  Just Steve and how much they care about him.  Bucky hopes that’s enough.

He doesn’t get a chance to find out.  Stark’s AI speaks from seeming everywhere in the suite, her echoing voice disconcerting and gravely tense.  “Boss, there’s a serious situation in New York City.  You’re needed in the command center.”

Bucky jolts.  “Don’t you dare,” Stark snaps.  “You stay here.”  Then he’s rushing out of the room, probably heading there.

And Bucky heads to the quinjet hangar, because a serious situation probably means the Avengers are being called to assemble, and for God’s sake _someone_ has to stop Steve from fighting.

* * *

He almost misses his chance to try.  Stark blocked his access to sections of the complex that contain sensitive information, weapons, or means of escape.  That was part of the agreement Stark made with Steve when Steve brought Bucky here, that certain places were strictly off limits.  Thus he’s never been into the quinjet area or the armory attached to it, and he’s stuck for what feels like forever pacing like a caged animal outside the sealed doors, worrying that he’s already too late.  He rushed down here, but maybe the others were faster.  Maybe Steve’s already gone.

He’s about ready to scream when Sam finally shows up.  “Sam!”  The other man sprints down the hallway, and Bucky races to meet him.  “Sam!  Sam, where’s Steve?”

Sam’s eyes narrow in confusion as he slows to a brisk walk.  Bucky falls into step beside him, but he’s angling around to look behind them.  “He’s not with you?  Hill’s making the call to deploy.”

 _Fuck._  Just as he thought.  “He can’t go.”

That expression of confusion gets pinched and hard.  “What do you mean he can’t…”  Then understanding makes Sam’s eyes widen and stops him dead in his tracks.  “Shit.  What happened?”

There’s no time to explain.  Romanoff’s here, heading down the hallway herself.  “We’re going to have to make do without Vision,” she declares.  Her voice is grim, and she looks annoyed.  “Ross called into Stark.  He wants containment on this one.  Low exposure.  Plus Maximoff’s still on medical leave.”

Sam’s not nearly so restrained about his anger.  “Tie our fucking hands, why don’t you.”

Romanoff doesn’t answer that.  She turns to Bucky.  “What’re you doing down here?  You’re not cleared to–”

“Steve.  Where is he?” Bucky gasps.  He knows that once they reach the armory doors, he’s not going any further, so he’s got to stop this out here.  Steve’s not with them, which makes him horrifically worried and relieved all at the same time.  Maybe Steve’s not coming.  Maybe Stark’s already stopped him or he’s stopped himself.  _Not likely._   “We can’t let him go.  We have to convince him to sit this one out.”

Natasha appears perturbed but not enough to validate him.  “Something happen?”

Bucky’s mouth falls open, but he can’t speak.  He doesn’t know how to explain because now doubt picks at his conviction.  What if he’s making a bigger deal out of this than he should be?  What if he really is over-stepping his bounds?  This isn’t his team.  These aren’t his friends.  Yeah, Steve’s his lover, but that just makes him feel like some overly emotional floozy.  Steve’s a fucking soldier.  They both are.  They can handle their shit, handle combat, and he’s got no right to interfere, no right to go over Steve’s head like this.

The second he sees Steve coming down the hallway, though, with his shield over his shoulder and dressed in yesterday’s rumpled clothes, all his doubts disappear as suddenly as they came.  Steve’s pale and haggard and about as together as he was when he was puking his guts out hours ago.  His eyes are dark with exhaustion, ringed in shadows.  He’s not walking straight or tall.  He’s weary, worn down, and defeated.  When he sees Bucky, he frowns.  “Bucky, you shouldn’t be here.  Ross is all over this mission.”

And now it really comes to it.  Does Bucky call Steve out in front of Romanoff and Wilson?  Question his competency and potentially embarrass him like that?  He knows Sam will get behind him.  Sam seems worried to beat the band before Bucky’s even said anything.  He’s not sure he has an ally in Romanoff, though.  _To hell with it._   “You’re sitting this one out.”

Steve’s face fractures.  Something flashes in his eyes.  Bucky catches it.  It’s fear.  Not fear of fighting or fear of what’s happening to him so much.  It’s fear that Bucky’s there confronting him.  It’s fear that he’s been caught, that someone is forcing an issue he wants to avoid.  And he plays dumb, but he’s shit for lying, shit for acting, so the smile he attempts is forced and his eyes betray everything.  “What’re you talking about?  We have to go now, and you do, too, back up to our suite.  It’s going to be fine.”

Bucky grinds his teeth and gets right in Steve’s way.  “No, it’s not.  You’re not going, Rogers.  You’re sick.”

“Sick?” Natasha asks, her impassive mask wavering.  “What?”

Steve glares.  It’s daunting, because it’s raw and there’s a lot of pain behind it.  Pain and betrayal.  “I’m fine.  I’m not sick.”

Bucky shakes his head, holding Steve’s gaze and refusing to look away, refusing to back down.  “You are.  You know you are.”  Steve’s eyes narrow with a warning.  Bucky doesn’t want to fight with him, not here and not now and not even with all the tension that’s been building between them for days.  He will, though.  He’ll make a huge fucking scene if he has to because _Steve can’t do this._   “You’re not in your right mind.  You can’t go out there and fight.  You can’t.  I’m not letting you.”

That storm of emotions that seems to be constantly battering Steve roars to the surface.  “ _You’re_ not letting me?” he snaps.  “Where the hell do you get off?”

That hurts, and Bucky’s feeling raw and battered enough himself that he can’t keep his anger down.  “For God’s sake, stop lying!  Come on!”

“There’s no time for this!”

“No!  Tell them what happened!  What happened with Wanda!”  Horror slashes Steve’s scowl, and he backs away.  Bucky feels like a fucking asshole.

Natasha’s concern is mounting.  “What happened with Wanda?” she asks.  No one answers.  Sam looks a mixture of horrified and hurt.  Bucky knows he’s figured it out.  He figured it out the very same day it happened, but just like Bucky he probably told himself it’s not possible.  He doesn’t say anything now, and neither does Bucky.  Bucky stares at Steve and waits for him to admit it. 

When Steve doesn’t and no one speaks, Natasha prompts again, more irritated.  “What’s going on here?”

“Nothing,” Steve says firmly, regaining his composure.

Natasha’s not convinced.  “Steve, if you’re not up to this–”

“I am,” Steve snaps.  He dons a leader’s façade, cool and confident and stern.  Maybe it’s just as convincing as before, _maybe,_ but all Bucky can see is the cracks in it now.  “I’m fine and we have a job to do, so let’s do it.”  He glances to the other two.  “Suit up.  Rhodes is already airborne.  Let’s move.”

And that’s it.  He pushes right by Bucky like this is nothing, and Bucky just stands there and watches and wonders how it’s come to this.  Natasha follows Steve to the armory doors, shares a concerned look with Bucky and Sam as Steve opens them for her.  Steve seems to realize his mood is frightening them all, so as he stands holding the doors open, he looks softer and more caring.  “I know I haven’t been myself exactly lately, but I really am fine.  I can handle it.”  He offers a hint of what Bucky supposes is a comforting smile, but there’s no solace to be had as he and Natasha go inside to get ready.

Bucky wants to scream as the doors lock shut.  “Jesus fucking Christ,” he whispers instead, and his eyes are burning with weariness and tears he’s not going to shed.  He turns around, trembling with the effort to keep his rage contained.  _“Fuck!”_

“What happened?” Sam asks, breathless with worry himself.

Frantic, Bucky turns to him.  “You gotta look out for him,” he gasps, grabbing Sam’s shoulders.  For the first time since 1945, he’s _desperate_ to go into battle just to stay at Steve’s side, to keep an eye on him through the scope of a sniper rifle, to _be there_ in case Steve needs help.  He’s desperate to protect him, that innate sense of duty rising up inside him like a tidal wave, but _he can’t._   He’s not an Avenger.  He can’t get through the doors, can’t suit up, can’t take weapons from the armory and go out there and fight.  All he can do is get the others to do it.  He _has_ to.  “Sam, he’s blacking out in battle.  I know he is.  He’s shutting down here and out there.”

That perpetual look of frustrated, helpless horror on Sam’s face gets so much worse.  “Jesus, I didn’t want to think–”

“Neither did I, but it’s happening.  He should not be out there.  You gotta stay on him, you hear me?  Someone has to stay with him!”

A klaxon sounds to alert the area that the quinjet is prepping for take-off.  Steve was right about there not being any time.  Sam heaves a short sigh.  He turns to go into the armory and get ready.  “I’ll keep an eye on him!” he promises as he rushes inside.

Alone in the corridor, Bucky shakes and seethes.  He knows Sam will.  He _knows_ that.  But he also knows how battle goes.  It’s crazy, chaotic, and the Avengers are almost always grossly outnumbered.  Victory only comes with each member doing his or her part, and if Steve’s compromised, the whole fucking _team_ is compromised.  Sam may not be able to stay at his side.  Steve may not let him or the circumstances may not permit it.  _Jesus._   The restless misery is itching all over his skin, and Bucky grabs at his hair like he has been, tugging just to feel the pain.  _Fuck fuck fuck–_

He’s not going back to their suite.  He’s not going to sit there and wait to be spoon fed information by Hill or whoever’s been assigned to let him know if the battle’s going okay.  Not this time.  Before he thinks twice, he’s running through the complex, bursting through doors and pounding up steps and charging to the command center.

It’s at the heart of the building, a section surrounded by glass and filled with a massive computing center and numerous techs overseeing the Avengers’ equipment and operations.  This is another place Bucky has never really seen before, but Steve indicated a few months ago that it’s a fairly new system, implemented by Stark and (completely unsurprisingly) suggested by Ross.  Centralized control.  It’s amazing and confusing as hell to him.  They had command tents during the war, of course, and HQ was always involved, but a lot of the times the Commandos were sent out on their own.  Furthermore, as the Winter Soldier he very rarely functioned with other HYDRA agents, let alone support personnel.  He figures this is a hold-out from SHIELD, having this many people involved with a mission, but to him it’s uncomfortable.

And not one of these people has any idea how bad the situation really is, except for maybe Stark who’s still dressed in his robe and pajamas.  He’s standing in front of the massive array of glass monitors that are displaying everything from video of the situation in New York (which looks like an attack staged by yet another HYDRA splinter cell, if the red skull and cephalopod on their black combat gear is any indication) to the team’s vitals and comm signal strength to local law enforcement’s efforts to curtail the firefight breaking out in the streets of Time Square.  Some sort of festival was underway, so the place is packed to the brim.  Tens of thousands of people are in danger, maybe more if HYDRA has something more sinister up its sleeve than the pinched Chitauri weaponry the soldiers are wielding against the crowds.  Bucky watches in horror as the hostiles fire a salvo from their modified alien canon into the crowd from atop a building, sending people screaming and stampeding in a panic.  As the crowds spread out and away, Bucky catches sight of someone in the center of 45th Street and 7th Avenue.  The figure is standing atop a crate, a bigger guy dressed in gray armor plating with a helmet and two ragged white lines painted across his chest to form an ‘X’.  _Shit._

Crossbones.

A combination of fear and rage twists Bucky’s gut.  Brock Rumlow was really only one of dozens and dozens of sadistic handlers involved with the Winter Soldier’s brainwashing and torture over the course of seventy years, but because he was the last who had a hand in it, Bucky remembers him more.  He also betrayed Steve in a huge way; ex-SHIELD Agent Rumlow used to work closely with Steve when Steve led SHIELD missions at Nick Fury’s behest.  The son of bitch didn’t take too kindly to Project: Insight failing (and a large portion of a building falling on him and leaving him a burned, scarred mess), and he’s been after Steve since, doing shit like this just to summon the Avengers for a brawl.  It’s been aggravating and difficult for Steve, knowing he trusted this asshole for months while said asshole was torturing Bucky in the shadows and delighting in it.  Of all the nasty things that could be going down today, why does it have to be this?

There’s no answer, of course, but the uneasy foreboding in Bucky’s gut twists up even tighter.  This can only end in disaster.  He has to stop it now.  He can’t get in, though.  The doors to the command center are securely sealed, trapping him in the annex.  Every time he steps up to the entrance, the computer scans him and then summarily denies him with a nasty buzz.  “Goddamn it,” he hisses.  He yanks at the handles, but they don’t give, of course.  The screens in the room beyond show the quinjet coming in for a landing not far from Times Square.  War Machine slams to the street first to protect the jet, and immediately the HYDRA soldiers divert from shooting at the crowd to aiming at him.  Bucky watches the command center switches from tense anticipation to action as the battle commences.

As Steve leads the Avengers into the street.  _Shit._

The minute the quinjet ramp descends and Captain America steps out, _everything_ turns to him.  Any doubt that this attack is anything other than another attempt to bring Steve down disappears.  Steve and Natasha exit the jet, Steve with his shield up to deflect the first salvo sprayed at them and give Widow a chance to get cover.  Falcon and War Machine are already airborne.  Though the thick glass between him and the command center muffles the sound from within, Bucky can hear the comm link come alive with chatter, Steve’s and the rest of the Avengers’ voices loud as they coordinate trying to evacuate while putting down the threat.

It becomes more obvious why centralized control of the battle is good.  Sam launches Red Wing, his drone designed by Stark, and with it aloft, the techs here have a literal bird’s eye view of everything.  Bucky can hear them and Stark relaying information to the team, the number of hostiles in play and types of weapons involved and the location of civilians in the crossfire.  Steve and Natasha immediately set to getting the people to safety, protecting their escape and trying to keep it orderly, as Sam and Rhodey keep the dozen thugs busy.  There’s that crate in the center of Times Square, the one on which Crossbones is standing, and it’s sadly obvious that it may be a bomb of some sort.

The vicious asshole confirms it.  “Nice of you to come, Cap!” Rumlow shouts from behind his helmet.  Steve’s close enough that his comm picks it up.  Bucky can practically hear Rumlow sneer as he hops down from the crate.  “Then again, you’re predictable as fuck.  A little box full of explosives in a crowded place always works with you.”

Immediately the chatter in the command center changes, their interest shifting to the new threat.  The news people present focus on the crate, video feeds shifting and zooming in.  It’s big.  There could be a few hundred pounds of C-4 in there or something worse.  There’s no way to tell.  Stark’s shouting, something about bringing Red Wing down to try and scan it.  Bucky can see over the multiple camera angles, one from Red Wing and others from local news and civilians, that Steve’s coming closer.  He has his shield on his arm, and he looks exactly as he should in Captain America’s commanding blue uniform.  _It’s all a lie._   The conversation is muffled, but Bucky can make out the words.  “Whatever you want, we can take care of it without threatening all these people,” Steve says, nothing but calm and firm.  “Shut that bomb down.”

“I don’t think so,” Rumlow hisses.  He raises his arm, opening his palm and revealing what’s clearly the detonator.  People scream, and all around them they disperse faster in a flood of panic as the realization of exactly what’s happening strikes hard.  Crossbones makes a show if it just to rile everyone up further.  “See?  It’s already ticking down.  Has been since we landed.  My guess?  You have another ten minutes.  Maybe.  And if you want to disarm it, you’re gonna have to fight me, Rogers.  You’re going to have to take this from me.”  He slides the device into his breastplate, behind the armor.  Steve grimaces.  “And no fucking shield.  You fight me like the weapon they made you to be.  That’s what I want, you son of a bitch.  No more bullshit about you being a hero or a protector.  They made you to be a weapon.  That’s what all of us are.  Weapons.”

“That’s not true,” Steve says.

“Isn’t it?  You.  Me.  We weren’t created to save people.  We were made to kill.  So own it.  This is it.  You and me, beating each other until one of us dies.  We’re fucking due.”

Bucky shakes his head, but he’s helpless.  He can tell right away that Steve’s going to accept the terms of this duel.  It’s not like there’s a choice, not with that bomb threatening who knows how many people, not with the rest of the team locked in an all-out skirmish around them.  _Don’t do it.  Christ, don’t do it!_

Steve puts his shield on his back and falls into a defensive stance.

Bucky bangs on the glass door in fury.  _No, no, no no no–_

It’s not hard at all to imagine Crossbones’ sneer of satisfaction, and without another second of delay, he charges.  He’s bulky with all that armor, and under that he’s just a man.  A cruel, arrogant, highly trained black ops soldier, but still just a man against Captain America.  Bucky knows he’s not so foolish to think he can best Steve in a fair fight; from what Steve’s told him, the guy worked with him for months, fought and trained alongside him.  He’s well aware of just how strong and fast Steve can be, just how much of an expert martial artist Steve is.  So he has to have something up his sleeve.

That something becomes obvious right away.  The Avengers have dealt with Crossbones a few times already, but he’s obviously gotten an upgrade to his battle suit.  Bucky doesn’t recognize the gauntlets Crossbones has on his arms, huge metallic apparatuses that entirely enclose the limbs up to his elbows.  That may be because he hasn’t kept up with what’s been going on, mission debriefs and the like, but Stark’s dismay only solidifies his fears that this is new stuff.  “Watch his arms, Cap!”

Steve barely dodges the swipe of one of those gauntlets.  The machinery within them moved to power Rumlow’s punch almost like a battering ram.  The next strike Steve doesn’t avoid completely, and the enhanced blow hits him in the solar plexus, sending him flying a dozen feet back into the crowd.  The rest of the team is shouting, panic lining their words.  Bucky pounds the glass again.  This time Stark turns, sees him, and frowns in fury.  He turns to a couple of bigger guys and very clearly tells them to get him out of here.  They frankly look terrified of him but come out to get rid of him.

But he’s not going, not even as the would-be bouncers finally get brave enough to grab his arms and try to pull him away (fucking laughable, really).  On the screens, Steve and Crossbones are deep into it now.  Bucky fights to keep watching as the guards try to get him to move.  “Tell Stark that Captain Rogers can’t do this,” he demands after Crossbones lands a vicious kick in Steve’s side.  “Tell him!”

Sam’s cry of frustration is loud enough to cut through the noise inside the command center, and Bucky’s would-be escorts go still, turning to watch the fight.  The other Avengers are scrambling to contain Crossbones’ men as they continue to harass the crowds.  It’s clear that’s just a distraction, though, a nuisance meant to keep them busy and Steve without backup.  Every time Sam tries to break away to aid him, one of the other fuckers makes a point to shoot into the innocents with reckless abandon.  The NYPD is struggling to evacuate, but there’s just no way they can hope to clear out Times Square like this, though Widow, Falcon, and War Machine are trying their best to get it done.  They are completely outnumbered, and the HYDRA bastards are using the threat of civilian casualties like leverage.

And Steve’s losing ground against Crossbones.  The fucker’s upped his game significantly.  Bucky watches in horror as a knife juts out of his right gauntlet, and that finds its way into Steve’s side.  Steve yelps, and Bucky knows a bitten off scream when he’s heard it.  “Feel good, Cap?” Crossbones taunts as they struggle against each other.  “Want your shield real bad, don’t ya?”

“Use your shield, Steve!” Stark says, very clearly agitated.  “To hell with what he wants!  Drop him!”

Steve won’t, not if it risks Crossbones setting off that bomb.  Instead he grabs the gauntlet where the blade’s buried deep and twists hard, yanks, likely stabbing himself worse as he violently rips the whole damn thing off Rumlow’s arm.  Whatever relief there may have been at seeing Steve toss the broken contraption down onto the street is short-lived.  Crossbones screams like a maniac, and his men fire into the crowd.

“Jesus!  Someone stop them!”

“Cap, do you have this?”

“Avengers, we need this under control yesterday.”

“NYPD’s forming a perimeter.  Medical’s setting up to the south!  Get the wounded out!”

“I can’t shut these assholes down!  Shit!”  Falcon makes another low pass, trying to draw their fire as Widow attempts to extricate a group of people toward the north side of the area.  “Natasha, get them clear!”

“Working on it!  Does anyone have eyes on Rogers?”

“You think you’re so much better than me?”  Rumlow growls, gasping as he trades another rapid series of blows with Steve.  He’s driving Steve back into the crowd that’s formed behind them.  The people were fleeing from another of the thugs raining blue bolts of hellfire down from the top of building on 7th Avenue, and now they’re caught in the middle of this nightmarish showdown.  Steve ducks, whirls, delivers a kick of his own that has Rumlow staggering across the asphalt.  He turns to get the people clear – _no, Steve!_ – and Rumlow’s back right away like a dog slavering at the kill.  Another knife snaps out of the remaining gauntlet, and Steve barely turns in time, barely twists and deflects the attack.  Rumlow shrieks in fury.  “Goddamn you, Rogers!  You think you’re so good?  So pure?  You’re _nothing!”_

One of the news cameras has a really good vantage of their fight, catching all the gruesome details.  Like words that shouldn’t have fazed Steve at all cutting right to his core.  He cringes, falters, and in his split second of weakness, Crossbones surges.  The knife must meet its mark and cut through the Kevlar mesh of Steve’s suit because he gasps in pain.  “Fuck,” Bucky whimpers.  He doesn’t stand still anymore, pulling away from the men around him and charging right into the command center, right to Stark’s side.  “Do something to stop this!”

Stark turns.  His pinched expression tightens further at seeing Bucky.  “I told you to get him the hell out of here,” he growls at the others.

“Rumlow’s going to hurt him!  This is a setup!”

“No shit,” Stark returns, though he’s a shadow of his normal arrogant self.  “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but he’s trying to blow up Times Square.”

This is ridiculous.  The team needs more help.  They are seriously undermanned and at a dangerous disadvantage with HYDRA targeting innocents.  “It’s too much!” Bucky snaps.  He grabs Stark’s arm before thinking twice, barely remembering to control his strength as he does.  Everyone in the command center is watching them, not the fight, and his escorts are reaching for their guns.  Bucky doesn’t care.  “You have to do something.  You have to go down there, take the bomb out of the equation–”

Stark blanches and yanks himself away.  “I’m not on active duty.”  He says that _again_ like it’s an excuse.

It’s not, and it only enrages Bucky further.  “Oh, for fuck’s sake, they need–”

“And I’ll never make it in time–”

“Steve shouldn’t be fighting like this!”

Stark loses his patience and roars, his aggravated voice cutting over the din.  “He’s Captain America!  This is his job.”  It takes everything Bucky has not to punch Stark’s lights out.  Stark glares.  “Now get him out of here.  He’s not authorized to be–”

A cry from the video feed has them both turning back to the displays.  For a second, Bucky fears the worse, but it’s the opposite in fact.  Steve has rounded on Rumlow, driven him back away from the crowds and toward the crate again with a flurry of fast punches and kicks.  He catches the second gauntlet when Rumlow launches a frustrated attack, and Steve twists and yanks again, mangling the metal contraption and sending Crossbones back with a sparking, nonfunctional, useless weight on his arm.  The asshole gives another ragged scream, frustrated beyond the pale, but Steve’s advancing and driving him down further.

Just like that, the entire tide of the fight changes.  Relief pounds through Bucky as the team starts to get control of the situation.  A lucky blast from War Machine sweeps Rumlow’s thugs from the top of one of the buildings.  Widow finishes getting people away from the thick of the fight, though there are still _hundreds_ if not thousands around (and some are standing and watching, for crying out loud).  Falcon kicks a Chitauri blaster out of another guy’s hands before dragging him across Times Square to where the cops are waiting to slap some cuffs on him.

And Steve lands a mighty punch across Rumlow’s face.  He staggers backward, clearly on the retreat, losing ground as Steve beats him down.  A second later he’s on his knees before Steve, and Steve’s towering over him.  Bucky can see slick red on Steve’s side and glistening on his face, but he’s standing tall, his expression dark and malignant.  “You’ve lost,” he says.  “Now give me the detonator.”

“Thank God,” Stark whispers.  “Cap, shut him down.”

Steve doesn’t, looming but not attacking the seemingly defenseless maniac at his feet.  Crossbones is breathing hard as he pulls the broken remains of his helmet off.  That reveals his hideous face, the reddened ridges of burn scars covering most of his forehead and around his eyes to his ears.  Steve’s expression loosens, and he takes a tiny step back.  “What?  You don’t like your handy work?” Rumlow asks with a hard smile.  “I think I look pretty good, all things considering.”

Steve recovers, but it’s obvious to Bucky he’s shaken again.  “Hand me the detonator.  Cooperation now goes a long way.”

“There’s nothing under the sun that’s gonna make me want to cooperate with you,” Rumlow hisses breathlessly.  _“Nothing.”_

Steve loses his patience.  Frankly, Bucky’s surprised he’s held onto it this long.  He grabs Rumlow’s chest plate and hauls him closer.  One of the people filming the fight has a perfect vantage, and his phone catches Steve’s jaw clenching and his eyes flashing in rage.  He raises his fist to strike.  Crossbones struggles weakly, sputtering, “He knew you, you know!”

For a second, everything seems to go still.  On some level, Bucky knows what’s coming.  Maybe he’s not as smart as Stark, but he figures it out much faster, his heart pounding and his skin going cold and his brain skipping.  “Oh, shit,” he whispers.

Stark’s not following, not understanding why Steve’s hesitating.  “You copy, Cap?  Drop him!”

“What did you say?” Steve hisses.

Crossbones gives this tiny, evil, _satisfied_ smile.  Bucky catches it.  Steve doesn’t.  “Your pal.  Your buddy.  Your precious _Bucky._ ”  Steve practically recoils, and Crossbones goes in for the kill.  “Oh, yeah.  The entire time we had him.  He came out of cryo, and the first thing he always said was your name.  It was like they couldn’t burn you out of him no matter how many times they fried his brain.  Makes sense, since you were his best friend.  Everyone knows that.  Best friends since childhood.”  Crossbones winks.  It’s absolutely hideous.  “ _More_ than that though, right?  Wonder how the world would react to finding out their favorite hero is not only a faggot but fucking the Winter Soldier.”

The whole command center goes silent.  Frankly, Bucky’s not sure how many of them are aware of his relationship with Steve (or, more to the point, Steve’s relationship with _him_ ).  It’s not exactly a secret, but neither is it something anyone mentions openly.  In fact, since Bucky’s been fairly well relegated to isolation, it’s likely only the team knows for sure, and none of them talk about it much.  It’s like this thing that’s swept under the rug because people either don’t approve or don’t know what to think at all.  To Steve and Bucky, it’s all the same; they’ve always had to hide their love.

Now the world knows.  This is being filmed, broadcasted everywhere in all likelihood, trending on social media as it happens.  The truth’s out there as if it’s wrong and vulgar.  _Christ,_ Bucky thinks, horrified.  _What did I tell them?  What did I say?_   All those years, HYDRA torturing him, ripping apart his thoughts and his heart and his very soul.  It never occurred to him that his handlers would have cared, that they would’ve made note, kept the information to use like a sword against Captain America if the need ever arose.

But it has, and they are.  And it gets _worse._    “It’s the other way though, isn’t it?”  That sneer is back.  Bucky feels sick.  “He fucks you, doesn’t he?  Hah.  Captain America takes it up the ass like a whore.”

“Shut up!” Steve says, but his face is betraying him completely, betraying just how much Rumlow’s getting under his skin.  “Give me the detonator!”

“Shut him down, Rogers!” Stark shouts.  “Wilson, Cap needs backup and he needs it now.  Get–”

“I have to tell you, _Steve_.”Crossbones grins like oil dripping.  “It’s a fucking riot, because even though he always begged for you, it didn’t take much at all to get him honed in on killing you.  I know because I was there when they put him in the chair.  I saw it, saw how nice and simple he went down for once.  The techs couldn’t figure it out, why that programming took so easily when he fucking fought everything else for seventy years.  But I’ve had some time to think about it, and you know what?”

It’s like watching an accident happen.  Bucky’s standing there in the second before something truly terribly occurs, and he’s _knows_ it’s coming, but he can’t move, can’t speak, can’t look away.  Can’t do anything.  He’s _helpless._

Crossbones smiles, climbing to his feet.  Steve doesn’t stop him.  Steve doesn’t do anything.  He’s just standing there, face white, eyes wide.  Watching.  Listening.  “Because he blamed you for everything.  It’s your fault.  You let him fall.”  The words come.  There’s no stopping them.  The smirk on Rumlow’s lips is downright sadistic as he grabs Steve’s uniform by his shoulder harness and drags him closer.  He whispers right into Steve’s ear.  _“You couldn’t save him.”_

Steve doubles over.  At first it seems like it’s the words themselves that have hurt him so seriously, and Bucky has no doubt they have, but Rumlow pulls back and the camera zooms in on the knife in his hand on the red on Steve’s belly.  Bucky lurches like it’s happening in front of him, like he can do something.  He can’t.  Steve staggers back, going down onto his hands and knees, and it’s obvious right away that whatever shred of connection to reality he had before is absolutely gone.  Bucky can’t tell how badly hurt he is, if the knife went in deep, but it didn’t seem it.  No, something else is wrong entirely.  Steve’s eyes are glazed and he’s just kneeling there.  It’s that same look, the same lost, disconnected stare, only now it’s loaded with terror.

Crossbones looms, wielding the bloody knife.  Bucky takes a few steps forward before he can stop himself.  “Stark!”

“Widow, Falcon, _someone_ help Cap!” Stark shouts, his voice breaking.  “What the hell–”

“Aw, what’s the matter, Stevie?”  Bucky’s gut clenches at Rumlow taunting Steve with his nickname.  The one Bucky gave him.  The one HYDRA must have stolen.  Steve’s visibly shaking, recoiling, scrambling to get away.  He’s whispering something.  Bucky can’t hear what, but Rumlow can.  “You’re not gonna fight me?  I know you?” 

 _“Your names is James Buchanan Barnes.  Bucky, you’ve known me your whole life.”_   The red spreading on the front of Steve’s uniform, blood soaking through the white stripes.  _“I’m not gonna fight you.”_ _Fuck!_   It’s a flashback, right to the moment on the Insight helicarrier when it was crashing and Steve was trying so desperately to get through to him.  Steve’s trapped in it.  _“I love you.”_

And Crossbones is taking full advantage.  “Yeah, I know you.  I know what you fucking deserve.”  Steve whimpers something else.  He doesn’t try to fight – _target is not engaging target drops his shield into the river target is defenseless_ – as Rumlow hauls him back to his knees by his arm.  His eyes flash in gleeful anticipation, and he jabs the knifepoint up to Steve’s trembling lips.  “End of the line?  You’re goddamn _right_ it’s the end of the line.”

_“No!”_

Bucky screams that, but he’s not the only one.  Sam’s cry heralds his attack as he swoops down from the sky and collides bodily with Crossbones.  They go to the left in a tangled mess of limbs and weapons, Falcon’s wings twisting as he fights for control.  Bucky can’t watch that, though he knows he should.  All he cares about is Steve, limp where Rumlow dropped him against the street in the middle of Times Square.  His shield is still uselessly on his back as he curls into himself and quakes, eyes yet glazed, still lost up in his waking nightmare.  Natasha suddenly arrives at his side.  “What happened?” she cries into the comm link.  “Did he get hit?”

“Get him out of there!” Stark orders, glancing at the dozens of news and civilian cameras filming this disaster.  “Get him out now, Natasha!”

War Machine thuds to the ground in front of where Sam is grappling with Crossbones.  “Wilson!” Rhodes cries, and Sam yanks away from Rumlow’s grasp.  A couple blasts from the armor’s repulsors finally drop Rumlow.  Steve already battered and disarmed him enough that it doesn’t take much at all for Sam and Rhodes to completely subdue him.  Sam holds him down while Rhodes uses a laser beam from War Machine’s right gauntlet to slice into the chestplate.

Sam reaches in and finds the detonator.  “Shit!” he gasps, and he turns and looks right into Red Wing where the drone’s been hovering aloft.  He holds up a piece of molded plastic.  “Stark, it’s a fucking fake!  It’s fake!”

Everything stills.  Beside Bucky, Stark goes white.  “Rhodey,” he finally says, his voice wavering, “you gotta disarm the bomb.”

Rhodes jets over to the crate.  “Jesus, Tony, how?”

The command center snaps from its stasis, coming alive with renewed attempts to determine what’s inside the crate and how to stop it.  Bucky doesn’t follow the flurry of panicked activity, trying instead to see Steve.  He can’t.  Even the people filming the fiasco on the street are focused on Falcon and War Machine trying to get the crate open.  Bucky’s skin’s crawling, and he can’t catch his breath.  It’s awful and selfish – he knows it is – but he wants one of the rest of the team to go back to Steve so he can at least know he’s okay.  Even Widow is by the bomb now.  He’s pretty sure all three of them have experience with explosives (they’re all military of a sort), but it doesn’t seem likely Crossbones would make this easy to diffuse.  He came to make a scene and get his revenge, and it looks like he’s doing both.

Sure enough, the second the Avengers get the crate open, Red Wing gets a glimpse of the insides.  It’s an array of circuit boards and wires interwoven in a net of sorts around something that very much looks like a massive tank.  Underneath the mess of cables, the biohazard symbol barely peeks out.  “Oh, no,” Stark whispers.  “What the hell is it?”

Natasha stalks quickly over to where Rumlow is laying on the street.  Apparently someone cuffed him during the chaos moments before, probably the cops who are bravely standing behind him.  She hauls him up by what remains of his hair.  “What’s in the crate?” she barks, her face an uncharacteristic picture of unrestrained wrath.  “What is it?”

Crossbones smiles dopily.  “Thought I’d finish what the assholes in India failed to do,” he slurs.  “Drowning a city in anthrax seems like a fun way to send a message.”

Widow’s face goes lax in horror for a split second.  Then she frowns tautly and drops Crossbones back onto the street.  “You copy that, Stark?”

Stark’s already at one of the larger displays in the room, swiping at a touch screen to examine what they can detect about the bomb.  He’s sweating, frantic, muttering to himself as he tries to figure out what they’re dealing with.  “There’s enough anthrax in there to cover the whole area.  Rhodey, we need–”

“This is more complicated than anything I’ve ever seen,” Rhodes replies worriedly.  “I’m not qualified to handle it.  We need you.”

Tony shakes his head.  “No, I can’t–”

“We’ll never be able to clear out everyone!” Sam shouts.  Finally he’s leaving the crate and heading to where Steve’s still laying.  The second he gets close, Steve’s scrambling back, shaking like crazy, eyes utterly wide with terror.  He’s clearly still out of his mind.  Sam shakes his head.  “Somebody make the call on what to do here!”

“Tony.”  Rhodes backs away from the bomb.  His voice is softer, more encouraging.  Bucky knows Rhodes is Stark’s best friend.  He wonders what Stark’s told him, if he’s confided in him.  Rhodes is certainly trying to be supportive now.  “In the time it’ll take you to teach me what to do, you’d be here.  You can do this.  We need Iron Man.  We need _you.”_

Stark stands a moment, pale and mortified, eyes darting between that crate full of poison and Steve’s crumpled form.  All around the team, people are still running, trying to flee.  In a matter of minutes it may not matter.  There’s nowhere they can go to escape what could happen.

“Alright,” Stark finally murmurs.  “Alright!”  Then he’s running, charging out of the command center, leaving the techs shocked and scrambling.  There’s nothing for them to do now.  Everything hinges upon how fast Iron Man can fly to the city and if he diffuses that bomb.

Bucky still can’t focus on that.  All he can see is Steve where Sam’s kneeling next to him.  Sam’s shut his comm off, and he’s got a hand on Steve’s shoulder, his other trying to unsnap Steve’s helmet and get it off him.  Steve’s still terrified, though he’s letting Sam closer.  He’s breathing like he’s run forever, like he used to back in Brooklyn when his asthma was bad.  Natasha crouches by them for a second, asks Sam something that Bucky can’t make out, but then she’s up again and futilely trying to get more people out of the area.  One of cameras catches wetness around her eyes, tears maybe, as she shouts for everyone to stay calm.  No one is.  Captain America’s still having a panic attack, and the bomb is still there, and everything feels like it’s frozen in this awful, frustrating limbo.

Then finally, _finally_ Sam says something to Steve, and Steve seems to snap out of it.  He scrambles up to his knees.  “Go,” he gasps, pushing Sam back.  “’m fine.”

“Steve–”

“Go help Nat.  Get as many out as you can!”

 _Thank God._   Bucky thinks he may cry he’s so relieved.  The tension in the command center doesn’t quite dissipate at the sound of Steve’s voice, but everyone seems to breathe a little easier.  Sam doesn’t argue, even if it looks like he wants to.  He lets go of Steve’s arm, and Steve gracelessly climbs to his feet.  He blinks, wipes at his face, blinks again, staggers to Rhodes’ side.  “What…”

Rhodes glances at Steve, at his sweat-matted hair and glassy eyes and bruised, bloody face.  “Cap, we got this.  Get back to the jet.”

“No,” Steve says, shoring himself up.  “No, I can help.”

“Iron Man’s inbound.”

Tony’s voice cuts over the comm line.  “Let’s secure the area.  Are the cops rounding up the HYDRA soldiers?”  One of the monitors is tracking his location, and he’s flying like a bat out of hell, zooming south across New York state.  He’s nearly there. 

“Yes, sir,” replies one of the techs.  “They want to know if they should pull out.”

On the street, Steve gathers himself more and nods.  It’s shaky at best, a shadow of his normal strength.  And his voice wavers and seems weak, too, but he doesn’t lose control of it.  “Yes.  Yeah, everyone fall back.  Sam, Nat, that means you, too.  I’ll help Stark and Rhodes.”

“Copy that, Cap,” Natasha responds.  The relief in her voice is hesitant.  “You sure you’re okay?”

“Fine,” Steve says more tersely.

Just then Iron Man thuds down behind them, seemingly shaking the street with the impact.  He rushes over, glancing at Steve but not saying anything.  Steve looks absolutely stricken.  “Tony, I–”

“You’re not fucking helping with anything,” Stark says.  His voice isn’t unkind exactly, but it’s obvious he wants Steve out of there before anything else happens and he wants it done without an argument.  “Go to the jet.  Medical’s waiting.”

“Tony–”

Iron Man’s blue eyes are hard, locked in their perpetual glare as they stare down Steve.  “I don’t have time to argue with you.  You’re done.  Go!”

The look of shame and defeat that crosses Steve’s face is heartbreaking.  Bucky can hardly stand it, can hardly stand watching Steve’s shoulders slump ever so slightly as he turns and limps away.  “Jesus Christ,” Bucky whispers.

Stark watches a second before frantically starting to diffuse the bomb.  “Rhodey, come on.  Let’s get this thing shut down, or we’re flying it some place where it can’t kill anyone.  No way it goes off here.”

They go to work, and in a matter of minutes Stark’s figured out the wiring.  Then he’s capably disabling the explosives that would have spread anthrax all over Midtown Manhattan.  It should be a fantastic triumph, but they all know the damage has been done.

* * *

For the second time that month, Bucky finds himself bursting through the doors of the medical ward.  Thankfully, he doesn’t have to search for answers this go around.  Sam’s right there, nursing a shitload of bruises and cuts.  Natasha’s with him, banged up herself, but Steve’s not there.  _Steve’s not there._   “Where is he?” Bucky demands breathlessly.  “Sam, where–”

“He bolted the second the jet touched down,” Sam answers.  He looks harried, a massive bruise forming on his forehead and his nose bloody.  Apparently Crossbones’ thugs got some heavy blows in.  “He–”

“And you _let_ him?”  Bucky can’t fucking believe it.  He turns to go, because Steve was stabbed at least twice; he needs medical attention.  He needs help.  He needs–

“Stark let him go.  _Told_ him to go,” Sam says, and though his tone is low and pinched with fear, there’s no anger in it, at least none directed at Stark.

Natasha shakes her head.  She looks uncharacteristically rattled.  Obviously seeing Steve go down like that has shaken her.  “You need to get out of here, too.  Now.”

That doesn’t make sense, and Bucky whirls, heart thundering in his ears.  Then the double doors down the hall slam open, and suddenly he understands.  And he does what Sam said, gets out of the way and into one of the exam rooms just adjacent to the central area before anyone else sees him.

It’s not a moment too soon.  “What the hell is going on?” demands Ross as he stalks across the corridor.  Bucky instantly pulls the door almost shut.  Then he chances another glance outside, crouching at the door frame of the little room and peering through the crack.  He’s never seen Ross in person before.  The man’s wearing a nice black suit, his thinning air brushed back, his gray mustache neatly trimmed around thin lips that are tightly pressed into a disapproving frown.  Small eyes are narrowed into a glare, one that he settles on Sam.  “Where is Rogers?  Where is he?”

 _Fuck._   Bucky can barely hold himself still and hidden.  He already feels pushed to the brink, and this asshole has _no right_ to ask anything right now.  Before Sam answers (and Bucky loses his cool), the doors on the opposite end open and Stark comes through.  He’s still wearing his armor, the fluorescent lights shining brightly on the sleek red and gold plating.  His helmet retracts, revealing his face which is wet with perspiration and deeply set into its own frown.  “Doesn’t matter,” he declares.

“No, it matters,” Ross returns.  His voice always reminds Bucky of a fatherly figure.  It seems like it should belong to someone who’s caring and inspiring, but it doesn’t.  “We almost had a serious disaster back there!  If that bomb had gone off–”

“It didn’t,” Stark says, getting up into Ross’ face with surprising bravado.  “Bad guys lost.  We won.  Aside from a few bumps and bruises, nobody got hurt.  It’s all good, so I don’t know why you’re here busting our chops.”

Ross’ back is to Bucky now, but Bucky can see the tension in his stance.  “You know damn well why!  This is the second time we’ve almost had a biochemical event in a major metropolitan area, and this time?  This time I got a very clear look at just how out of control you are.”

Stark shakes his head.  “No one’s out of control.”

“Rogers dropped the ball out there!” Ross snaps.  “He let Rumlow get the upper hand!”

Staying silent is torture.  “In case you didn’t notice, he was trying to deal with the threat,” Sam hisses, unmasked fury in his tone.  “Rumlow came after him, and he put his life on the line in an unfair fight to protect _everyone_.”

“No, he collapsed,” Ross clarifies, “and gave Rumlow the chance to strike.  And I hope to God what that bastard said about him and the Winter Soldier is _not_ true because he’s right about one thing: the world is not going to take too kindly to Rogers being–”  He stumbles over his words in disgust.  “–engaged in some deviant sexual relationship with HYDRA’s most decorated assassin.”

 _Fucking hell._   Bucky sees red.  He can’t stand this.  He really can’t.  “They were people before they were soldiers,” says Natasha.  Hearing her come to their defense cools his ire a bit.  “And Captain America’s relationships and sexual preferences aren’t anyone’s business but his.”

“Ms. Romanoff, I’d like to believe you’re less naïve than that.”  Natasha bristles.  Bucky can see her eyes darken with fury, and he has to wonder if Ross knows who the hell he’s missing with.  “Captain America sleeping with the enemy.  Unbelievable.  And I suppose _none_ of you knows where Barnes is.”

Bucky holds his breath.  It’s the team’s chance.  This is certainly _Stark’s_ chance, his opportunity to reveal Bucky’s location to the authorities, to get him out of the complex and into the hands of the government to face justice.  It’s his chance to get his revenge.

Yet Stark stays silent.  They all do.  Ross sighs in irritation.  “This is going to balloon into a _massive_ problem.  People the world over just saw Captain America _letting_ a wanted war criminal win.  They just _heard_ what they heard.  I want Rogers here.  He needs to answer for this.  He needs to explain to me what happened down there so I can report to the President.”

“Tell him he had a fucking bad day for all I care.”  Stark’s voice is dripping with warning.  “You’re not talking to him now.  He was hurt.  He’s resting.  He doesn’t need to explain himself.  The situation was resolved with no casualties and minimal property damage, which you’re always telling me has to be the main goal of any response on our part.  Your criteria don’t include a perfect PR extravaganza for you.”

“That’s not what this is about, Stark!”

“Isn’t it?” Stark asks.  “You want the Avengers to serve the government, but only the Avengers as this picturesque symbol of right and virtue.  You want the team with Captain America at the helm, doing your dirty work and telling the world that it’s good and true.  That’s not real, Mr. Secretary.  We’re people.  We do our best, but sometimes we fall.  Are you perfect all the time?”

“I’m not the villain here!”

“Neither are we, and you’re not turning any of us into one.  That perfect picture shattered.  Our stock went down with you, and you’re pissed off, and you want to take it out on a convenient scapegoat.  And don’t tell me it wouldn’t be grand for you if some sort of public scandal forced Rogers to step down.”  Ross stiffens again.  “Well, that’s not happening.  I want oversight same as you, but not at the expense of anyone’s right to choose and not if it’s going to ruin the image of someone who’s fucking _sacrificed himself_ to save our world not once but _twice._   So if that’s what you’re after, you’re not getting it.  Leave.”

“You better watch your tone, Stark,” Ross hisses.  “It’s only because of me you’re not sitting in a jail cell right now, that _all_ of you aren’t rotting away in prison.”  The room goes silent.  Bucky can almost picture the looks of frustration and anger on the others’ faces.  He closes his eyes and sinks into the wall.  “This isn’t over.  The State Department will be running its own investigation on this one, and you’ll be lucky if we don’t drag all of you before Congress to answer for what happened.”

It’s not an idle threat.  They all know it.  However, Stark doesn’t back down.  “This is a civilian operation, and I own this building.  So I’ll say it again in case you missed it.  _Leave._ ”

Silence.  Then Ross backs down.  The _clack clack_ of his shoes on the tiled floor of the corridor seems thunderous, and Bucky clenches every muscle in his body to remain still and calm just a little longer.  Once the man has gone with the doors sliding shut behind him, Bucky slips out of the exam room.

Stark collapses onto a bench, even in the armor.  His head hits his hands.  “Fucking hell…” he whispers.  “What do we do?”

Bucky doesn’t wait for an answer.  He just wants to find Steve.  Before he thinks twice, he’s ignoring Sam’s calls and racing back out of the medical ward.  He gets into the elevator, so tormented by his own helplessness that he’s pacing the small space like a cage.  He doesn’t know what to do.  He doesn’t even know where to go.

Then he takes a breath and looks up.  “FRIDAY?” he calls in a tentative voice.  He’s not sure that the AI can hear him, if it’s – _she’s_ – installed everywhere in the complex but not permitted (or willing) to respond to him.  The silence that follows seems to support either of those explanations, but he tries again.  “FRIDAY?  Are you there?”

It shocks Bucky something fierce when she answers.  “I am not authorized to respond.”  Her tone is curt, clipped.  Bucky has no idea if she’s capable of feeling anything.  She’s a computer, artificial intelligence Steve called it, so is her anger something real or something she’s been programmed to emulate?  The parallels between that and what HYDRA did to him, reducing him to a robot in effect, a killing machine only capable of feeling and thinking what he was _programmed_ to feel and think, gives him chills.

He doesn’t let that dissuade him, though.  “FRIDAY, please.  Tell me where Steve went.”

“I am not authorized to respond.”

“You’re respondin’ already,” Bucky hisses, fighting for the last bit of his patience.  The elevator goes quiet, and he sighs shakily.  “Please just tell me where he is.  He’s hurt and he needs me.”

Another moment or two passes in stiff, awful silence, and Bucky’s sure she’s ignoring him.  But the elevator moves, taking him back up into the complex’s living areas.  “Thank you,” he breathes, closing his eyes and leaning into the wall.  “Thank you.”

It shouldn’t be a surprise that she deposits him on the floor with their suite, but it is.  And it shouldn’t be a surprise that there’s a trail of blood leading down the hallway to their door, but that is, too.  Bucky swallows down his terror and runs inside.  “Steve?”  There’s no answer, the sprawling living room, dining room, and kitchen utterly empty.  The drops of red lead him into their bedroom, and now he can hear the shower running.  Steve’s shield is dumped onto the floor right outside the bathroom door.  Parts of his uniform, his boots and his gloves and his pants, haphazardly line a staggering path inside.  Bucky follows it.  Steve’s light blue under armor is right by the shower, and it’s soaked in blood.

The shower door is fogged.  Bucky hesitates a second before grabbing the handle and pulling it open.  “Steve?  Steve, sweetheart…”

Steve’s there in the corner of the shower.  He’s naked, back to the tile, knees tucked up to his chest and arms wrapped around them.  He’s being soaked by the heavy spray from the multiple showerheads and wall mounted jets, but he doesn’t seem to notice at all.  He’s staring again, face completely empty, eyes a million miles away.  There’s blood leaking down from him and turning the water red.  Bucky can’t see how badly hurt he is, so he strips off his shirt and his pants and steps inside.  “Steve, I’m here.  I’m coming closer.”

He has no idea what state of mind Steve’s in.  Considering how rapidly his condition’s been changing the last couple weeks, Bucky errs on the side of caution and takes it slow no matter how ardently he wishes to run to Steve’s side and hold him until he’s sure he’s okay.  Steve always took moments like this slow with Bucky himself when he’s had them in the past, and Bucky never realized until now how difficult that is to hold back and be careful.  “Steve?”  He speaks louder to be heard over the hiss of the shower and the roar of water splashing against tile.  “Steve, it’s Bucky.  Can you look at me?”  He takes another couple steps closer before dropping to a crouch right in front of him.  He doesn’t dare touch him.  “Steve, look at me.”

Steve shivers.  He blinks, his eyes red and wet although Bucky doesn’t know if that’s from tears or water.  “Hey, I’m right here,” Bucky coaxes.  “Look at me.”

“Fucked up,” Steve whispers.  Bucky can hardly hear him.  “Let you go.”

“You didn’t.  I’m right here.”

Steve loses whatever bit of control he has left, face collapsing into an agonized grimace.  Bucky catches him as he rolls forward, tucking him into his embrace.  The sob Steve barks into his shoulder is broken, pure and simple.  Broken and hurting.  “Shhhh,” Bucky hushes.  He threads his hands into Steve’s wet hair, tucking his battered face into his neck, and runs his metal hand up and down Steve’s back.  “It’s alright.  It’s alright!”

It’s not.  They both see the lie for what it is, and Steve cries harder.  His ragged sobs echo in the bathroom, rising above the din of the shower and bouncing loudly off the tiles.  Bucky lets him cry.  He knows he needs to get him up, get him out so he can see how badly hurt he is, but he lets him have this.  He needs it so badly.  Bucky’s own eyes burn and he squeezes them shut as he wraps his body around Steve’s the same way he used to when Steve was small, pulling Steve almost into his lap and enfolding him in his arms.  “It’s alright,” he promises again and again.  Like a mantra, he chants it, his voice soft where his lips are pressed close to Steve’s ear.  “It’s alright.  It’s alright.  It’s alright…”

It takes a while but eventually Steve wears himself out.  His heaving sobs turn to shaking, gusty sighs, and the tension in his muscles fades.  Bucky kisses his head.  “Gotta get you up and out now, okay?  Gotta take a look at you.”

Weakly Steve shakes his head, but he doesn’t object more than that as Bucky takes him under his arms and pulls him to his feet.  He wobbles, but Bucky’s ready for it and steadies him.  Now he can see Steve’s chest.  There are deep bruises all over him from the fight.  They litter his torso and thighs like some gruesome painting.  As awful as they look, Bucky knows from experience that they’ll heal in a matter of hours.  Far worse are the three stab wounds, one in Steve’s side between his ribs, one shallower along his shoulder, and the deepest of them in his stomach, not far, in fact, from where the Winter Soldier shot him on the Insight helicarrier.  That doesn’t look nearly as serious as he feared, thank God.  The Kevlar mesh of Steve’s tac suit and the serum reduced the damage.

They still need treatment, though.  “Come on.  Let’s get to bed.  I need to take care of you.”

Steve stiffens.  “No,” he moans.

“Yeah.  It’ll be okay.  Come on.”  Steve’s not terribly willing, but Bucky doesn’t give him much choice, pulling his uninjured arm over his shoulders and taking Steve about the waist to bear as much of his weight as possible.  Then he leads them out of the bathroom, pausing at the little alcove by the door to grab as many towels as he can carry.  It’s a bit of a juggling act considering Steve’s doing very little to support himself, but he manages to help Steve limp toward the bed.  Then he’s reminded they broke it this morning during that hellish nightmare.  Sighing in aggravation, he drags Steve with him to the guest room.  He spreads a couple of the towels on the bed there, unused since Bucky came to trust himself enough to sleep with Steve again, and then uses a third to dry Steve off.  Then he has him lay down.  “I’m gonna call Sam, okay?”

“No,” Steve whimpers again.  He squeezes his eyes shut, but fresh tears escape.  Low doesn’t describe how he looks.

Bucky pulls the duvet up and over him, not caring if it gets wet or bloody.  Steve’s shivering from shock.  “Yes.  Stay here.  Don’t move.”  It doesn’t seem like Steve’s capable of doing much of anything right now, but Bucky wouldn’t put it past him.  It takes some looking to find the phone in their suite; honestly neither of them ever use it, but Bucky has no idea where Steve’s cellphone is.  It takes just a second of fumbling at the computer to get the call through to the portable handset.  “Sam?”

Sam’s voice is tense over the line.  “Did you find him?  I checked everywhere down here.”

“Yeah, I got him.  He’s in our suite.  He needs medical.”

“How bad?”

“Bad enough,” Bucky answers, glancing over his shoulder at the guest bedroom to make sure Steve hasn’t moved.  He hasn’t.  The lump on the bed under the duvet is the same as he left it.  “Don’t want to bring him down to the infirmary.  He’s still all screwed up.”

Sam understands.  Of course, he does.  “Right.  Be there ASAP.”

That turns out to be about ten minutes later.  Bucky spends those ten minutes taking care of Steve, who seems to have slipped back into his head again, likely detaching from the latest trauma completely because that’s far easier than actually processing what happened.  Bucky’s worried as hell, far more worried about that than his wounds that are still bleeding no matter how much pressure he puts on them with the remainder of the towels.  Steve doesn’t even react to the pain, and Bucky just feels wildly out of his league.

Therefore, it’s a goddamn relief when there’s a knock at the door.  Hastily Bucky dresses in some sweat pants before getting a pair of boxers on Steve’s naked body.  Then he goes to greet Sam, who shows up bearing a whole bag of medical supplies, one he likely pilfered from the infirmary.  They don’t speak at the door, Bucky silently leading him to their bed.  Sam frowns when he sees Steve.  “He been like this the whole time?”

Bucky nods.  “Found him in the shower maybe thirty minutes ago.”

Worry shows brightly in Sam’s eyes as he sets his supplies down on the bed.  “Steve?  Steve, it’s Sam.”

Steve looks away.  “Sorry,” he whispers.  It’s the first intelligible thing he’s said since Bucky dropped him here.  Hearing him talk at all’s a relief.  “Sorry, Sam.”

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Sam promises.  He pulls the duvet down to Steve’s lower belly.  “I’m gonna check you out.  See if anything needs stitches.”

“’m fine.”

“I swear to God I’d erase those two words out of existence if it’d get you to stop saying them,” Sam declares.  It’s with a little chuckle that sounds more affectionate than aggravated.  Bless him.  That’s all Bucky can think.  Bless him for being calm and gentle and knowing how to act and what to do.  Sam pulls the duvet away and a wince crosses his face before he can stop it.  He spends a second looking over the injuries with steely determination, carefully examining each of the stab wounds and all of the deep, hideous bruising marring Steve’s pale flesh.  Carefully he probes along his ribcage.  “Don’t think anything’s broken, but I don’t know for sure.  Hurt to breathe?”

Steve’s not wheezing too badly, but he nods.  “Serum’ll fix it.”

Sam chooses not to argue with that.  They all know it’s true.  That’s the fucking problem, isn’t it?  The serum heals Captain America, so _everyone_ thinks it’s okay for him to get hurt.  Bucky shares an angry look with Sam, but there’s no sense in going over how shitty it is right now.  Instead Sam takes a look at the gash in Steve’s side with Bucky’s help to keep the towel in place so the blood doesn’t get everywhere.  “Think this is okay.  Needs stitches.”

Bucky thinks so, too.  He may not be formally trained in emergency medical procedures like Sam is, but he knows plenty about wounds, having treated his own many times in the past as the Winter Soldier and having been trained on how to torture and kill.  He’s better schooled than anyone in the difference between striking a man with a mortal wound versus one meant to hurt or disable.  With Captain America, it’s even harder to do the former, and a knife fight at the hands of someone as sloppy and weak as Crossbones isn’t going to achieve it.  Sam spends more time with the stab wound in Steve’s stomach.  There are more vital organs in this area obviously, but with the serum, even this probably doesn’t require surgery.  The wound also isn’t as deep as it seems.  “Seal that one up, too?” Bucky asks just to fill the silence.

“Yeah,” Sam asks, and then he’s digging in the bag.  “Think you can help?”  Bucky gives him a little glare, and Sam shakes his head, more at himself than anyone else.  “Sorry.  Been easier and easier to forget.”

“What I was?” Bucky says, laying his metal hand on Steve’s shoulder the second Steve shifts uncomfortably.  It’s the first time he has throughout their treatment so far.  “Easy,” he whispers, rubbing gently.  “You’re okay.”

“What you did,” Sam corrects.  They’re silent for a moment as Sam gets the suture kit ready.  “Christ, this is a fucked up situation.  Just, um…”  He turns around with gloves on and the needle and thread in hand.  “Ready?”

Steve’s had this done before.  Hell, Bucky’s been the one to do it, back during the war.  Steve’s even had surgery without anesthesia, which is an awful thing that Bucky would rather have never remembered.  He knows Steve can handle this, so he nods, because he can handle it, too.  He gets on the bed and pulls Steve’s upper body against him.  Steve grimaces, Bucky’s metal arm wrapping carefully around his chest to keep him steady.  “If I had a dollar for every time I’ve had to do this, Rogers,” Sam mutters.  He doesn’t bother with any preamble, just getting to it.  They’re all soldiers, hardened by war and hell.  Steve’s shaking, but Bucky doesn’t think it’s from the pain.  Not really.  All of them are watching the needle slide through Steve’s flesh, watching the thread follow and pull the laceration shut.  Sam’s fast and capable, his hands steady, and Bucky thanks God for him all over again because he knows he wouldn’t be nearly so calm.  Not when it’s Steve he’s treating, and not after what just happened.

When the first stab wound is stitched, Sam dresses it with sterile bandages, taping it all in place on Steve’s belly.  His eyes flick upward.  “Doing okay?”

Steve blinks hazily.  “’m sorry,” he whispers.

“For God’s sake, enough!  Stop apologizing.”  Sam’s voice a little harsh but mostly teeming with worry.  “It’s not your fault.  _Nothing_ is your fault.”

Steve squeezes his eyes shut.  He’s biting his lip hard, and Bucky can see he’s struggling to hold on.  He moves to help get Steve on his side so Sam can stitch the other wound but also so that he can lay beside him.  It feels wrong to be this open and intimate with someone else right there, but he supposes that point’s moot now.

And Steve’s falling back down inside himself again.  “He said you…  You…”  He can’t make himself say it.

He can’t because it’s _bullshit._   Knowingly or not, Rumlow fed right off Steve’s insecurities and drove that proverbial knife in hard.  And this wound can’t just be stitched up.  Bucky thinks about what Wanda said, about how much Steve dreams about his fall, about the guilt and horror and pain surrounding that.  About the nightmare Steve had last night, just one in a long parade of them it seems.  A ritual penance.  A compulsive self-flagellation of sorts, and Steve has beaten himself absolutely bloody.

It has to stop.  Bucky cradles his face and looks right in his eyes.  “Steve,” he murmurs, “it’s not true.  Nothing he said is true.  Nothing about us.  You know that.”

“I don’t,” Steve whimpers.  He shies away like he’s not worthy of Bucky’s touch.  “I don’t!”

“You do,” Bucky assures.  He doesn’t let go, not for a second, not even as Steve jerks in his hands.  Sam’s sewing fast, drawing the raggedly torn ends of skin together with the thread.  “Steve, Christ, why didn’t you tell me that you blamed yourself?  Though it should be obvious, I guess.  I should have seen it.”  Bucky swallows the sob tightening his throat.  “All these weeks, these months, everything you’ve done for me…  You never said it’s eating you up like this.”

Steve doesn’t say anything, shutting his eyes.  Bucky surges forward, unable to stand the distance that’s between them, unable to tolerate his helplessness for one second more.  He kisses Steve powerfully, shivering with how badly he needs to feel him, how much he needs to make this better.  Sam’s watching; Bucky can feel his eyes on them, and again it feels wrong, but he doesn’t stop.  This is who they are, who they’ve always been.

He pulls back for a breath, and Steve sighs, a long, shivering thing blown into Bucky’s neck.  Bucky cups the back of his skull tenderly, his metal fingers pressing lightly to keep Steve’s face hidden.  He catches Sam’s gaze, expecting revulsion because it’s one thing to know about something and something else entirely to see it.  But Sam just smiles sadly.  He stopped stitching during the kiss, and now he resumes, moving even faster to get the wound closed up while Steve’s pliant like this.  “It’s alright,” Bucky breathes, and he’s not sure who he’s promising this time.  Steve or Sam or himself.  Or all of them.  It doesn’t matter.  He’ll keep saying it.  “It’s alright.  Everything’s alright.  It’s alright…”

A few minutes later, Sam’s cutting the thread and tying it off.  Gently he presses another pad there and starts securing the bandage.  “He okay?”  It’s become so silent that his whisper is nearly thunderous.

Bucky leans back a little to glance down at Steve’s face.  “Sleeping,” he reports, so goddamn relieved.  He closes his own eyes, exhaustion nearly dragging him down, too.  _Thank God._   Wearily he presses his lips to Steve’s forehead.  _Thank God._

“Was like watching a fucking train wreck.  A perfect storm.”  Sam’s pained murmur makes Bucky open his eyes, and he finds the other man still sitting on the edge of the bed.  His back is to them, tense under his combat suit’s under armor.  He shakes his head.  “Couldn’t do anything.  Even with what you said, I wasn’t ready.  I wasn’t expecting it.”

Bucky carefully untangles himself from Steve.  He doesn’t want to.  It hurts to let him go for even a second like this, but he does because he’s better than his fears.  He tucks Steve into the duvet.  “Not your fault,” he says.

Sam turns around, eyes filled with pain.  He wipes at them before sucking in a deep breath.  “Are you okay?”

The question takes him completely by surprise, so for a few long seconds, he just stares at Sam and wonders what he’s supposed to say.  “Me?” is what finally comes out.

Sam nods.  “Steve’s not the only one who was outed today.”

Bucky’s brain’s barely functioning given the shock that someone’s _actually_ asking him how he _feels_ about something.  Someone other than Steve, anyway.  He considers his answer, because, no, he’s not fucking okay.  But it’s not because he’s been outed.  He doesn’t care about that.  His relationship with Steve has always been and will always be the one good thing he has, far better than anything he deserves, and he doesn’t care anymore if the world knows it.  Sleeping with the man he loves is as far from evil as he can be, as far from the innumerable acts of murder, arson, torture, and terrorism he’s committed under HYDRA’s control as imaginable.  If people think that’s sick or wrong, theirs is not an opinion worth respecting.

Still, he’s shaken, deeply so.  “I don’t know,” he whispers, aching inside in a way that’s new and raw and vicious.  “I don’t know how they knew.  How the hell…  I must have…  Fuck, I don’t remember!  He said I told them about Steve.  _I_ told them.  I didn’t know I had.  Shit, I didn’t even think about it.  I never realized–”

“There’s nothing you could have done,” Sam comforts.  “It’s not your fault, either.  They tortured you.  Took your mind and your memories.  You fought them every step of the way.”  Bucky knows that that’s true.  No one is better learned on what HYDRA had to do to create the Winter Soldier than Sam and Steve.  The two of them read every bit of information they could find on what Zola and the Russians did during their search throughout Europe.  Like some sort of grisly epic story, they pieced together Bucky’s sordid past more than Bucky has, even with Wanda’s help at straightening his memories out.  Bucky’s still not sure of some of the details.

And Sam’s not sure, either.  “So it’s not true.  What he said about the… the _programming_ to kill Steve taking so easily.”  The memories come unbidden.  The chair under a bank in DC.  A stern, old man with red hair and a nice gray suit.  Rumlow and others.  Pain and humiliation.  Beyond that, there’s darkness and Bucky doesn’t want to peer inside it.

“It’s not true,” Sam says again, and Bucky pulls from his thoughts and focuses on him.  Sam’s looking for confirmation, for some assurance.

Bucky has none to give him.

* * *

They let Steve sleep.  He’s peaceful for the first time in forever, and that’s more than enough reason to let him be.  In fact, Sam leaves them both alone, stepping out to try and figure out what’s going on with everyone else, with Ross and whatever fallout’s occurring both from the battle and from Stark basically kicking a government official out of the complex.  Sam promises to be back soon, and to that Bucky just nods wearily.  He’s not sure he wants to know or that he cares.  What Crossbones said, what Sam wondered…  It’s set him on edge, shattered whatever semblance of peace he’s made with the monster within.

Has all this been some sort of illusion?  Steve being so strong, so full of faith and determination…  A mask to hide how damaged he truly was inside.  And Bucky’s own recovery all feels like a lie, because now he’s not sure.  He’s not sure that he didn’t tell HYDRA about Steve willingly.  He’s not sure that he didn’t blame Steve for the fall.  He doesn’t blame him now.  God, he _never_ could now.  But back then?  With his heart at their mercy and his body their toy and his mind torn open to their prying fingers…  For seventy years they went at him, took from him, fed him what they wanted him to think and feel.  Is there _any_ way to be certain that he never blamed Steve for what happened?

He doesn’t know.  And he wants to cry.  He doesn’t, though.  It’s turning into a cloudy day, and it’s raining softly outside.  Bucky pulls the blinds and dims the lights and shuts out the world because it’s too much and too painful and he can’t take it right now.  There’s nothing beyond the shadowy haven of their bed, where Steve’s breathing easily, nestled against the pillows and covered by their duvet.  Bucky climbs in with him and cuddles as close as he can, being careful not to wake him.  He sighs slowly, letting the taut misery go, and slips his thumb down Steve’s face, tracing a path from his temple to his cheek to his slightly parted lips.  Steve’s eyelashes flutter lightly, but he doesn’t wake.  Reverently Bucky kisses a bruise on Steve’s cheek.  It’s already fading, just hours after the skirmish.  And the wounds Sam stitched will heal without a mark.  And the welts on Steve’s chest will disappear.  Like all of it never happened. 

 _Fuck the serum._ He keeps thinking it, saying it.  Maybe if there were some goddamn scars, it’d be easier to process the damage.

“I never blamed you,” he whispers to Steve’s sleeping face.  “Never.”  Saying the words feels good, but it’s not a replacement for certainty.  He hasn’t been certain of much in the last couple years since HYDRA went down.  Recently he’s been certain of Steve and their love for each other.  And now…  Bucky closes his eyes.  It makes sense that HYDRA would use hatred against him, against Steve, but it’s _fake,_ planted there by those assholes, a vindictive extension of _their_ hatred of Captain America.  That has to be it.

_It has to be._

Bucky eventually drifts to sleep, his metal arm on Steve’s hip, their faces pressed close.  It’s light and fitful, and he snaps right out of the it the second he hears someone outside the closed bedroom door.  Adrenaline jolts through him, decades of intense training rushing at his resolve, and it takes everything he has to remember he’s not in danger here.  There’s no one to kill, no mission to complete.  His only mission is to protect Steve, and Steve’s still asleep right beside him, covered in bandages and so broken.

He’s failing his mission.

“Bucky?”

That’s Sam’s voice, and it’s right outside the door, which cracks open.  The urge to answer with violence fades in a rush of chilly horror, and Bucky takes a deep breath and tells his stupid body to stop trembling as he slides from the guest bed and goes to the door.  He opens it wider.  Sam frowns worriedly.  “How is he?” he asks quietly.

“Still sleeping,” Bucky says, and it’s completely irrational considering all Sam’s done for them both and the fact that Sam just saw Steve in a seriously vulnerable state not more than a couple hours ago, but he blocks the other man’s view of Steve.

Sam doesn’t take offense and doesn’t try to get a glimpse around Bucky, either.  He just nods.  “Come with me.  Everyone’s here, and they want to talk.”

 _Everyone._   Bucky feels cold again, cold and not at all ready or equipped to handle this.  It’ll be easy to slam the door and go back to hiding in the shadows, to the physicality of guarding Steve in bed.  But he needs to be more than a soldier.  _You’re failing your mission._   That slashes through his head again, emboldening him, and he nods before following Sam out of the bedroom and closing the door softly behind him.

He’s scared shitless, scared in a way he hasn’t been in seventy years, maybe never.  Still, he lets that thought motivate him, lets the cold anger out of its cage.  Out in the living area of their suite, the entire team is gathered.  _All of them._   Vision and Wanda are on one couch, the former as impassive as ever and the latter doing very little to hide how rattled she is.  Natasha’s in the chair in front of the gleaming coffee table, pale and bruised.  Rhodes is standing behind her, his arms folded across his chest and his teeth chewing at his lower lip.  And Stark’s pacing, his expensive suit uncharacteristically rumpled.  They all turn to look at Bucky’s entrance, wary and uncertain.  For his own part, Sam stays right at his side, but that does very little to deflate the tension filling the room like a balloon that’s about to burst.  Everything that’s been stressing and dividing the team has come to the forefront.  For the longest time, no one speaks.

Natasha finally exhales and leans forward to brace her elbows on her knees.  She clasps her hands together.  “Is he okay?”

Bucky doesn’t know why she’s asking, why _any_ of them are asking.  He bites down a harsh retort because that’s not nice to think, and he can tell she’s afraid of the answer.  “No.”

Sam glances at him.  “Physically he’s fine.  Nothing’s serious.”

“He’s _not_ fine,” Wanda says tersely, eyeing the rest of the Avengers like she’s daring them to argue with her.  “This was just the culmination of what’s been going on for weeks.  What we’ve _all_ ignored.”

“Hey, now,” Rhodes says, his voice sharp and defensive.  “I didn’t notice anything off about him until today!”

“Nor I,” Vision adds.  “Captain Rogers has been… _tense_ of late, but it hardly seemed beyond the normal boundaries of his observed personality.”

“Exactly,” Rhodes says.  “Don’t saddle the blame on us.  Cap’s smart enough to take care of himself.  He should have tapped out if he couldn’t handle it.”

“He wouldn’t.”  Natasha’s voice is laden with shame, softer and more burdened than Bucky’s ever heard it be.  “He couldn’t.”

“Am I missing something here?”  Rhodes shakes his head.  “Wasn’t he drilling us hard just last night?  Riding our asses like he always does?  He was _fine_ when we deployed, _fine_ when we touched down.  _Fine_ before he stepped out on that street today.  What the hell happened that set him off?  And how were we supposed to stop it?”  He throws his hands up helplessly.  “Tony?”

Stark doesn’t answer.  Anything he says now in support will be a load of bullshit.  He catches Bucky’s gaze for a brief moment before looking away.  “It doesn’t matter how we got here,” he declares quietly, tamely even.  “Point is: we’re here, and we need to do something because Ross is looking to hang someone out to dry.”

“Is that really our main priority right now?” Sam asks, shaking his head.

“No,” Stark says, “but we can’t ignore it, either.  The footage of Rogers going down during that fight with Crossbones, of what that asshole said and how he got the better of him…  It’s all over the place.  It’s spreading like wildfire.  I have FRIDAY trying to triage the situation, but there’s only so much she can do.  Plus…”  He clenches his jaw, fury in his eyes.  “Fuck, this wasn’t what I wanted.  It wasn’t what I thought would happen!”

“What?” Sam gasps.

Stark paces faster, getting more and more agitated.  “FRIDAY thinks Ross is working to spread things more.  Every time she gets a copy of the footage removed, it pops up again somewhere else.  Ross wants a scandal, wants to use it to bring us under his hand.  I’m surer of it than ever.”

Sam glowers.  “And Steve gets to be the sacrificial lamb.”

“Seems so.”  Stark looks sick and pale.  “It’s too late to stop it now.  His secrets are out.”  He glances at Bucky.  “All of them.”

“That’s bullshit!” Sam snaps.

“What do you want me to do?”  Stark turns to glare at him.  “I’m trying to fight this!  I’m fucking paying people off _to_ fight it!”

Vision appraises the team with annoyingly apathetic eyes.  Bucky knows that’s just the way he is, but it’s fucking pissing him off.  “The predicament was likely inevitable.  Without oversight–”

“This has _nothing_ to do with oversight,” Sam says, taking a confrontational step forward.  “Nothing!”

Vision’s eyes narrow.  “On the contrary, Sam, it is the lack of oversight that placed such a tremendous burden on Captain Rogers to begin with.  It is the lack of a sanctioned support structure that perhaps left him feeling as if he had nowhere to turn.  And it is the lack of aid that caused the situation in Chennai.”

“That’s not the whole story,” Wanda quietly argues.

Finally Vision shows some emotion, some compassion.  “I am aware that there were extenuating circumstances, and I do not blame Captain Rogers for your injury.”

“Wait, wait,” Rhodes interrupts.  He shakes his head, face locked in confusion.  “ _This_ has happened before?”

Vision frowns.  “It is a logical conclusion, given today’s events.”

Natasha curses softly in Russian.  “God, I was hoping I was wrong…”

Rhodes turns to her.  “You knew?”  Natasha glares at him a moment before dropping her gaze in a rare show of defeat.  Rhodes shakes his head in disgust.  “Well, that’s just fantastic.”

“It is likely a pattern of behavior,” Vision states matter-of-factly, “one that served to hide how truly ill he was becoming.  As I said before, I failed to notice Captain Rogers’ distress, and I will say again that this is not wholly his fault.  However, whatever negligence there may have been on his part–”

“Yeah, just shut the hell up right there,” Sam snarls.  “ _Negligence?_   That’s fucking bullshit.  You’re obviously forgetting all the times Steve put himself on the line to save _everyone_ , not just us.”

“I am not,” Vision argues, “and humanity owes him a debt of gratitude for the many sacrifices he has made to ensure peace and freedom.  However, that cannot negate the fact that he clearly went into battle that day in India as he did this day, not entirely in his right mind, perhaps sleep-deprived or otherwise compromised by chronic stress, and _that choice_ led to a dangerous situation where lives were further endangered.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Sam seethes.

Vision turns in his seat to regard Sam with a piercing, disappointed, and affronted gaze.  “Do not mistake my objectivity for a lack of sympathy.”

Wanda grasps his knee.  “Viz, please.”

The scowl on Sam’s face is beyond anything Bucky’s ever seen from him.  “Sympathy?  You’re sitting there and passing judgment like none of us had a hand in any of this.  _Or_ like there weren’t terrorists and HYDRA bastards and other evil men behind these so-called dangerous situations.”

“I am implying no such thing,” Vision responds.

“Sure as hell seems like you are.  This isn’t an argument for why we need oversight.  It’s a sign that Steve’s overworked and that he has been for a while.  And it’s a sign that shit goes south.  It gets the better of us all now and again.  He did the best he could.”

“You want to talk about judgment?” Rhodes asks.  “Steve’s is screwed up.  _Yours_ is screwed up.  I know you care about him, Sam, but you gotta see that he should never have fought today!”

“You were right there,” Sam returns, jabbing a forefinger boldly in Rhodes’ direction.  “You were there.  Nat was there.  Tony was on comms.  We _all_ saw it, but it was more important to have Captain America be strong for the Avengers so _none_ of us stopped him.”

“Well, no offense to him, but he didn’t do himself or us any favors by continuing this pattern of behavior instead of asking for help,” Rhodes declares.  There’s very little accusation in his voice, but Bucky can’t hear it as anything other than condemnation.

And Bucky can’t keep quiet any longer.  “And we didn’t do him any favors by ignoring the fact that he’s been fucking drowning!” he shouts, his voice rising above the chaos of the argument.  Everyone else goes silent and turns to him, alarmed that he spoke and spoke so loudly and sharply.  Bucky glares at them all.  “Sam’s right.  You were all _right there_ today, right there before Chennai, right there _every single time_ the team’s gone out to fight, and no one stopped him.  No one said a damn thing.  And it is a pattern of behavior, one that runs through his whole fucking life.  He refuses to bleed on anyone.  He refuses to be weak.  He refuses to let himself fall.  This goes _way_ back, back before today and Chennai and the last few months.  I’m willing to bet it goes back _years._ ”  He stares harder, unable to keep the venom from his tone.  It’s all coming out now, and he doesn’t try to stop it.  “How come no one did anything then, huh?  When SHIELD went down, _before_ SHIELD went down and he had no one and nothing.  When he woke up.  You said it yourself, Romanoff.”  Natasha flinches.  “He has his moments where he can’t hide how low he is.  SHIELD wakes him up, thaws him out, gives him his shield back and tells him to fight a war against aliens over the same damn weapon HYDRA was using against us, and no one stopped to think this might be the slightest bit damaging to him?”

“It wasn’t that simple,” Stark argues, but his tone is meek and hurt.

“It should have been!  You guys call yourself a team, friends, maybe even a family, and nobody seemed to care a bit that Steve’s been suffering.  You screw up, make mistakes, go off to lick your wounds, and you come back and just expect Steve’ll be there to lead you, soldiering on like he always does.  And, yeah, he denies how much it hurts and picks himself up when he gets knocked down and keeps fighting no matter what and puts a smile on so as to make everyone else feel better.  But you guys are all fucking smart.  You should have realized that Captain America is _human_.”

Rhodes looks furious.  He drops his arms from his chest and steps right up to Bucky, undaunted by what Bucky’s been and what he’s done.  “Where the hell do you get off?  You’re sleeping with him and you didn’t notice!”

“No, I didn’t,” Bucky concedes, “and that’s on me.  I was too caught up in my own shit to realize he was falling apart until it was too late.  And it’s even more disgusting because he’s my best friend, the one and only person I love and have ever loved, and I fucking _failed_ him.”  His voice cracks, and the emotions twist up his heart like it’s being crushed in a vise.  “But I’m not failing him anymore.  My eyes are wide open, and I see what’s been happening.”  Natasha flinches again, but she makes herself look at him.  “I see the real picture, what’s really going on, and I’m not losing my bearings.  Never again.”

The argument dies, and it gets uncomfortably quiet.  Bucky blinks away his tears, swallows down his pain.  They’re all still staring at him, so he stands a little taller, more confident in what he feels and in what he has to do.  “Maybe…  Maybe Vision’s right.  Oversight isn’t such a bad idea if only to know that _someone_ has our backs out there to help us make the tough choices. Dealing with the world’s problems has been hurting Steve, hurting all of you.”  He’s been thinking it more and more.  He understands Steve’s reticence, he very much does, but what Vision said before is absolutely true.  Steve’s been carrying the weight of the world alone, and it’s been crushing him.  “But that has to be someone we can trust, and Ross isn’t it.”  Stark ducks his head.  He knows it’s true.  “Not after what happened with SHIELD.  Not after we’ve _all_ seen what the abuse of that power can do.  I’ve fucking _lived_ it.”

“The abuse of our own power cannot be ignored,” Vision replies evenly, ignoring Stark’s grimace, “nor can the causal relationship between our actions and potential world-ending catastrophes be dismissed.  Our very strength invites challenge.  Challenge incites conflict, and conflict breeds catastrophe.  We have managed to prevent devastation thus far, but it is only a matter of time before a situation arises with which we cannot contend.  Having our leader emotionally and mentally compromised increases that likelihood significantly.”

“So now it’s back to this being our fault,” Sam says angrily.  “Steve’s fault.”

Vision opens his mouth speak further, but Bucky beats him to it.  “It _is_ Steve’s fault for hiding how much he was hurting, but it’s our fault for not seeing it or choosing not to see it because it’s easier to ignore it than fix it.  It’s the fault of this fucked-up world for needing us so badly but doing nothing to support us.  It’s the fault of the people who try to hurt us and hurt innocents.  It’s _everyone’s_ fault.”  He sighs slowly, catching Stark’s gaze.  “But Stark’s right.  It doesn’t matter how we got here.  We’re here, and we have to do something to make this better.  We have to help Steve.”

The tension fades from the room.  Bucky feels even more resolute when he feels that, knowing the team is listening to him.  Deferring to _him_.  It doesn’t last, though, that fledgling sense of purpose.  Natasha seems very small and lost as she shakes her head.  “How?  He won’t listen to me.  I’ve tried talking to him, tried getting him to talk.  He’s denied everything for so long…  I don’t think he can see things clearly anymore.  And the more we need him, the more we reinforce what he’s doing to himself.”

 _A vicious cycle._ Sam stares at the group, calmer now that the conversation is centered on helping Steve.  “We have to get through to him.  Stage an intervention or something.”

“How do you convince the world’s greatest soldier to stop being a soldier?” Rhodes asks.

“He can’t untangle himself from Captain America anymore,” Natasha adds quietly.  “Maybe he never could.”

Stark leans into the back of the couch.  At least he’s stopped pacing.  “We bench him.”  He looks at Bucky, and he’s hurting and unsure.  Subdued.  “Relieve him of duty.”

That’s a start.  Bucky turns to Wanda.  “Is there anything you can do for him?  I think…  I think it’s a lot of things that got him here, like you said before, an… an _infection_ or whatever that’s gotten worse over time.  But maybe at the heart of it is what Rumlow said today.”

Wanda frowns sorrowfully.  “He blames himself for what happened to you,” she murmurs.

Bucky nods.  The rest of the team is quiet, digesting that maybe, struggling with their own guilt.  “It wasn’t his fault.  There wasn’t anything he could have done.”  His voice almost breaks, almost betrays how uncertain of that he is now.  “You helped me see the truth for what it is.  Can you do the same for him?”

Hesitantly Wanda considers it.  “I…  I can try.”

“What else?” Sam asks after a moment.  He turns to Stark.  “You said you were trying to stop the footage from spreading?”

Stark gathers himself, sniffling.  Out comes the acerbic tone again.  “Trying and failing.  I have Stark Industries’ PR people on it.  They’ll do everything they can.  In the meantime…”  He stares at Bucky.  “I suggest you and Rogers stay very quiet.  Ross is chomping at the bit to make Cap’s life a living hell.  I’ll keep him away as much as I can, but don’t do anything to incite his wrath.”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” Bucky answers.

“Didn’t think you were.  I meant more about your boyfriend.  When he wakes up, tell him to keep his mouth shut and his butt in here.”  There’s nothing overly derisive about how he says “boyfriend”, but it still seems forced to Bucky’s ears.  Stark looks troubled, like he’s trying to make himself accept something that’s been right in front of his face for ages.  It’s pretty obvious what.

Surprisingly, though…  Stark sighs.  Submits.  “Let’s, um…  Let’s give these two some space.  They need it.  In the meantime, we need to make plans in case something happens while Rogers is down and out for the count.  Obviously he can’t run any sort of mission, so we need someone else to lead.”

“You,” Bucky says immediately.  “Steve’ll want you.”

Stark stands there, seemingly frozen, staring at Bucky and pretty clearly looking for any sort of doubt or indication that he’s being played.  There isn’t any.  Next Stark glances around the team, maybe searching there too, but none of the others do anything but meet his gaze firmly.  “Alright,” he says, ending the tense silence.  “Alright.  Let’s…  Alright.”

The meeting breaks up without anything further.  Rhodes looks unexpectedly sad and regretful as he passes, and it seems to Bucky like he wants to say something to him, but he loses his nerve and leaves silently.  Natasha does as well, though she sets her hand to Bucky’s flesh and blood shoulder in a tentative show of support.  “I’ll come back,” Wanda promises quietly, “when he’s awake and ready.”

Bucky nods.  “You want me to stay?” Sam asks.

“No,” Bucky says.  “No, I got this.”

“Just call if you change your mind.”

Stark lingers at the door, waiting for everyone else to go.  He holds Bucky’s gaze.  “Take care of him,” he orders gently, “and we’ll take care of everything else.”

Then they were all gone, leaving Bucky alone with the promise he swore to himself in a back alley in Brooklyn almost a hundred years ago, right after he pulled a gang of bullies off the little boy with floppy blond hair and with all the strength and stature of a baby bird but with the heart of a hero…  _Keep Steve safe._

Whatever it takes.

* * *

Two days disappear like they’re simultaneously no time at all and an eternity of misery.  Steve sleeps more than twelve hours, the longest Bucky’s seen him rest since they’ve been reunited, but it unfortunately does very little to remedy the situation.  Sure, the serum kicks into high gear, and when he climbs out of bed early the morning after the fight, his wounds are already well on their way toward healing.  The bruises are fading, the gashes where he was knifed mending with new, tender skin.  Steve’s still limping at bit, but by the middle of that first day, that’s gone, too, and all signs of the fight with Crossbones pretty much vanish before their eyes.

But it’s back to the same damn problem.  He heals so fucking fast that it’s like a nightmare, like something that’s not real so they can just forget it and move on.  Well, Bucky’s not letting that be the end of it this time.  He’s not letting this become another scar on Steve’s psyche, another wound that’s festering and weeping blood and unshed tears.  He’s not letting Steve brush this off and pretend it never happened.

Of course, Steve’s _still_ a stubborn asshole, so that’s easier said than done.

“What in the world are you doing?” Bucky says when he walks into their bedroom with a tray full of sandwiches.  Steve’s on the floor by the newly replaced bed, doing pushups like it’s going out of style.  He’s working hard, the muscles of his shoulders and back covered in a light sheen of sweat and rippling with every motion, and it’d be mesmerizing and hot as hell if not for the fact that he _shouldn’t_ be doing it.  “Steve!”

Steve spends just a second looking up.  “Can’t stand not doin’ anythin’,” he says between measured breaths.  The pushups aren’t quite as easy or fast or graceful as Steve normally does them, which can only mean things still hurt, which in turn reinforces Bucky’s belief that he shouldn’t be down on the floor straining himself like this.  “Drives me crazy, just cooling my heels like this.”

Bucky sets the tray to the bed and comes over to him.  “Stop,” he orders.  Steve doesn’t.  It’s been like this so far, a lot of Bucky trying to navigate Steve’s moods unsuccessfully.  Bucky’s realizing that _this_ is really what it’s been like for weeks, but now that Steve’s essentially grounded and relegated to resting, the worrisome behaviors, the hints of which he noticed before, are really making themselves apparent.  The moodiness.  The extreme hypervigilance.  The sudden dissociation that can herald an oncoming panic attack.  The _avoidance_.  It’s all out in the open, because the mask of Captain America and all his duties has been utterly stripped away.  Just yesterday Steve lost it with Natasha.  She came by (as Sam has been doing, too) to see how Steve was, and they talked by themselves for a bit while Bucky anxiously waited in the bedroom.  The next thing he knows Steve’s not too politely trying to get Natasha to leave (in other words, yelling at her, and Steve _never_ yells).  Bucky learned after the fact that she was trying to coax Steve into talking to her, and he refused, and she pressed harder, and he stone-walled harder, and that just escalated until Steve’s emotions got the better of him and he’s shouting and viciously telling her to mind her own damn business.  Bucky got a few messages from Natasha later that day apologizing and explaining that she wouldn’t come back for a bit, that she’ll let Bucky handle it unless he needs her.  He read between the lines of text with their clipped tone.  She’s upset that she still doesn’t know how to help.

Like she’s the only one.  Bucky doesn’t have a fucking clue what he’s doing.  He only knows he doesn’t have the patience for this anymore.  Today Steve doesn’t have a metaphorical leg to stand on, not with the footage of his flashback during the fight quickly becoming the most watched video on YouTube according to Sam.  Bucky hasn’t said anything to Steve about it, trying to follow Steve’s lead when it comes to addressing the elephant in the room, but he knows Steve’s aware of what’s happened in general terms.  He knows that he’s been exiled to their suite at least, and he hasn’t been at all subtle about how unhappy that’s made him and how unnecessary he thinks it is.  The fact that he’s carrying on like he didn’t collapse in the midst of a battle, like their long-hidden sexual relationship wasn’t vulgarly revealed to the world in some sort of pissing contest, is driving Bucky crazy himself.  “Stop!”  He plants his bare foot securely on the small of Steve’s back and presses down hard enough to force him flat.

Steve collapses into the carpet, breathing heavily.  “What the hell is the matter with you?” he snaps, struggling to get away.  “Get off!”

Bucky lets him up, but he doesn’t back down.  He waits until Steve’s on his knees before speaking.  “You’re not supposed to be doing _anything_ , let alone working out.”

Irritated, Steve gets to his feet.  He gestures to his smooth chest, where only faint marks from the deeper, more serious wounds are lingering.  “I’m healed.  See?  Feel fine.”

Bucky struggles to hold onto his temper.  “That’s not the point.”

“No, that _is_ the point.”  Steve grabs his t-shirt from where it’s draped over the bed and puts it on.  “I need to get out of here, get back to work.”  Yeah, he’s said that about a dozen times today alone.  Bucky shakes his head to it, and Steve’s eyes flash.  “I know there’s trouble.  Everyone seems content _not_ to tell me like I’m some sort of invalid–”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, you are _not_ an invalid!”

“But I know somethin’s wrong.  I heard you and Sam talking about it last night.”  Bucky figured that at the time, when Sam showed up after Steve went to bed.  They shared a hushed discussion about the fall-out in the hallway, about Steve treating Natasha so poorly, and Bucky spent half the time glancing at their darkened bedroom wondering if Steve really was as deeply asleep as he seemed.  Apparently not.  “I know Ross wants me subpoenaed to testify before Congress.  I know he’s trying to hang us out to dry.  I know this is serious, and it’s my fault, my problem, _my_ responsibility, so I should be the one to handle it!”

“No, you are not handling it, not right now.  You can’t.  And it’s not just _your_ fault or _your_ problem.”

All the sudden this is exploding.  “I can deal with it myself!” Steve insists, and Bucky knows that stubborn set of his jaw and tense line of his shoulders.  He’s known it his whole life.  It’s Steve Rogers, preparing for a fight wherein he thinks he has the moral high ground.  Almost always he does, but not right now.  “I _should_ be the one to deal with it.”

“No.”

“Goddamn it, Bucky!”

“ _No._   You need to lay low and take some time to yourself.  You need to get better.”

“From _what?_ ” Steve demands, arms open in front of him.  “I’m fine!”

Bucky gets right up in his face.  “Don’t fucking say that again, Steve!  Don’t you dare say it!  _You are not fine!”_   Steve’s scowl loosens considerably.  “What has to happen for you to _see_ that?  Huh?  Twice in a month you went out to fight and completely zoned out!  Wanda got shot because you shut down!”  The scowl switches to a horrific grimace, but Bucky doesn’t stop.  “And the last time?  Crossbones could have killed you.  He could have killed hundreds of people.  I found you bleeding and broken in the shower, or did you forget?  Considering how screwed up you’ve been for _weeks_ , it wouldn’t surprise me!”

It’s silent a moment, Bucky’s harsh words echoing.  Steve shakes his head.  “Buck–”

“I take it you also don’t remember lashing out at Romanoff yesterday.  Or giving Sam the cold shoulder this morning when he stopped by.  Or the way you’ve been treating me all day, like I’m a warden in some prison rather than someone who loves you and is trying to help.”  Steve goes pale.  “You _need_ help _,_ Steve.  Everyone knows it now.  _Everyone._ ”

The blood drains further from his cheeks.  “That’s not fair.”

“When you brought me back here, when I was so fucked up I didn’t know if I was coming or going or if you were my lover or my target…  You didn’t let me treat myself like you’ve been treating yourself.  You didn’t let me ignore my problems because it was too painful to face them.  This is the same.  It’s the _exact_ same thing, Steve, and, yeah, it’s like some crazy, screwed up role reversal, but I am not letting you hurt yourself _anymore._ ”  Steve’s shaking his head.  “So, no, you are _not_ handling this, especially not by yourself.  You are not dealing with Ross or testifying before Congress or taking the fall or whatever it is you think you need to do.  You are not training or working out or running the team from our bedroom.  You are _disconnecting_.  You are staying here and resting and letting us protect you for once.”

“I…”  Steve’s voice breaks.  “I didn’t ask you to do that!”

“Yeah, well, tough,” Bucky snaps.  He goes back to the bed and gets their lunch.  “This is what it is, what’s been decided.”  He doesn’t care if that’s mean or feeding right into Steve’s (very natural and lingering) fears of being treated like an invalid.  “For now you’ve lost the right to decide differently.  And you’re not worrying.  You’re not even going to _think_ about anything other than staying calm and following our directions.  Wanda is coming this afternoon, and you are talking to her.  We’ve got a therapist lined up, too, and you are talking to whoever that is.  You are _talking_ , Steve, if not to me, then to Natasha or Sam.  To _someone_.”  Bucky can’t hide his pain, his own sense of helplessness and frustration.  Out of the corner of his eye, Steve winces again and looks away.  “Everything’s alright.  Things are in capable hands.  The world doesn’t need Captain America right now.  Stark’s taking care of Ross, and he’s taking care of the team.”

Abruptly the anger comes back, anger mixed with betrayal.  Steve’s glare is thick with hurt.  “Who asked him to do that?”

Bucky turns, staring at him with just as much pain.  “ _I_ did,” he answers firmly, not letting his voice tremor.  He thrusts a plate with a sandwich on it at Steve’s chest.  “Now eat.”

Steve stares at the sandwich – turkey and ham and cheese, plain and simple the way Steve prefers it – like it’s poison.  He doesn’t take it, his eyes narrowing into a wet scowl before stalking out of their bedroom.

The rest of the day passes in complete silence.  Steve shuts himself in the guest room of their suite and doesn’t come out.  Bucky’s worried out of his mind, but FRIDAY’s keeping an eye on Steve where he can’t.  Bucky’s taken his phone, taken all of his tablets that he uses for work and his laptop, and Stark’s locked him out of the computer system save for watching Netflix and checking the weather, so there’s no way he can be circumventing his restrictions and trying to work or even figure what’s happening beyond the walls of their suite.  According to FRIDAY, after pacing the room like a caged animal, agitated and hurting and maybe even sobbing, Steve just collapsed on the bed on his side.  Submitting, it seems, to what’s going on.  Bucky’s glad, but it hurts something fierce.

The therapist stops by later that afternoon.  She’s a nice lady, and she works with the psychiatrist Bucky’s been seeing, but she has no luck getting Steve to come out.  She tries hard, but Steve basically ignores her after he claims through the door that he’s too tired to talk and not feeling well.  Bucky stands there in the hallway and watches the man he loves and admires like no other, the one who’s always been too mature for his age and exceedingly polite thanks to his mother’s dutiful instillation of good manners, basically act like a rude, petulant child.  _Again._   Bucky’s left to apologize to the woman, and she brushes aside his concerns and promises to come back, reminding him that pushing someone who doesn’t feel ready to talk is useless.

Bullshit.

“Real fucking mature, Steve,” he calls through the door after the therapist has gone.  There’s no answer.  He tries the knob, though that’s useless.  It’s locked.  He’s not going to break the door down.  Not yet anyway.

It takes another couple hours for Wanda to come.  She’s troubled, just as she has been since she was hurt weeks ago.  “Tony believes the best course at this point may be counteracting Ross’ accusations and demands publicly,” she says as she and Bucky walk through the suite.

Bucky sighs, aching from stress.  “You mean denying the truth.”

“I don’t know for sure.  I don’t think so.”

“Steve’ll never renounce our relationship,” Bucky says.  Panic brings a shaky edge to his voice.  “He’ll surrender himself first.”

“I don’t think that’s what Stark’s after,” Wanda replies, repeating herself to comfort him.  “Ross is out there stirring a great deal of sentiment against the team.  I think he and Tony had some sort of gentleman’s agreement after Sokovia to minimize the negative press, but since Tony’s come out in defense of Steve and blocked Ross’ access to the complex, he’s decided to wage a war against us in the press.  As Tony says, Ross knows he doesn’t have any other weapons to use.”  She shakes her head.  “I can’t deny that I’m scared.  It’s come out that I was linked to Ultron’s actions.”

“I’m sorry,” Bucky murmurs.

“Ross is calling it all into question, Sokovia and Widow’s actions in DC and every mistake the Avengers have made before or since.”  Wanda closes her eyes and shrugs deeper into her jacket.  “He’s trying to flush Steve out, or make Tony turn him out and capitulate to whatever agreement he wants signed.  But public opinion’s not so firmly on his side, I guess.”  That gives Bucky pause, gives him the tiniest touch of hope.  “There’s enough support for us out there that Tony thinks trying some sort of appeal to the people is worth it.”  She gives a weak, apologetic smile.  “I don’t understand American politics.”

Bucky never has either, but he’s not stupid.  He knows public opinion can hold a lot of sway.  He’s not quite sure why President Ellis, who’s been very pro-Avengers during his two terms in office, ever appointed Ross to Secretary of State, but if the people at large side with the team or at least support the team’s position, that’ll create friction in the administration, and that can only be good.  Plus, there’s the not so small fact that if people are actively condoning Steve’s situation (and maybe his relationship with the Winter Soldier), by extension they’re condoning Bucky himself.  That feels a little selfish, like he’s using Captain America’s still potently good stock with the American public to elevate his own tarnished image, but damn if he can stop himself.

Still, all that’s neither here nor there at the moment.  “How is he?” Wanda asks, looking into Bucky’s eyes.

“Difficult,” he answers honestly, “and worrying the hell out of me.  He won’t talk to anyone.  He won’t talk to me.”

Wanda’s eerily perceptive.  “He’s ashamed and thinks you must be ashamed, too.”

“I could never be ashamed of him.  I just want him to get better.”

She stares at him a moment more before nodding.  “Let me go alone, please.  What he feels about you…  It’s too painful right now.  It’ll be better if I try by myself.”  Then she heads down the hallway to the guest room.  Bucky watches but keeps his distance at the end of the spacious corridor.  Wanda knocks on the door and calls Steve’s name and asks if she can come in.  Despite his enhanced hearing, Bucky can’t hear what Steve says in response, but after an excruciatingly long second or two, the door opens and Wanda slips inside.

Waiting is painful.  As the Winter Soldier and as a sniper in the army, he learned to have boundless patience, nerves of steel, really, to hold a gun perfectly steady and be as calm and still as possible while his unsuspecting target comes into view.  His hands never shake, his breath so even it hardly seems as if he’s breathing at all.  His hands are trembling like mad now, and he can’t stop panting and pacing the living room of the suite.  It takes him back to the times he paced the hallway outside their tiny apartment in Brooklyn, waiting for the doctor to come out of their bedroom and render a prognosis on Steve’s latest asthma attack that went too far or his recent bout of flu or pneumonia.  He doesn’t like the parallel.

An hour crawls by.  Despite how intently he’s listening for any sound from down the hallway, the knock at the suite’s door takes him completely by surprise.  He jolts, curses at himself for being such a skittish idiot, and goes to open the door.  He’s surprised to see Stark, but he figures he shouldn’t be.  Stark’s dressed in a smart charcoal suit with a blue tie, and his hair is mussed as though he just came in from the wind.  He looks unhappy.  “Barnes,” he greets stiffly.  Bucky just stares at him.  His brain’s too wrapped up in his worry – _what’s taking them so long? –_ to process anything.  Stark reads his blank gaze wrong and gets confrontational.  “If it’s not too much trouble, can you let me in?”

Numbly, Bucky steps aside and lets Stark pass.  It’s only after Stark’s looking around their living room that Bucky realizes he’s dressed in old sweats, still barefoot, unshaven with his hair pulled back in a sloppy mess that vaguely resembles a bun.  It’s not even a reversal of the other morning when Bucky visited Stark, because even when he was dragged out of his bed, Stark looked worlds better and more put together than this.

Stark doesn’t seem to care.  “Where’s Cap?”

There’s no reason to hide anything or lie.  “Maximoff’s talking to him.”

Stark nods.  “That’s good.”  Yet again a long, awkward silence comes between them.  Stark looks around some more, but it’s obvious he’s just doing it to seem nonchalant.  Finally, he sighs.  “Look, I’m going to dispense with this uncomfortable bullshit.  Things are going to hell, which I’m pretty sure you know.  I need you and Steve to disappear for a while.”

That was… _not_ what Bucky expected him to say.  “What?”

“Got a hearing problem?  I need you and Rogers _gone._   You’re a liability in the complex because Ross knows you’re here.  Well, he knows Steve’s here, but it’ll only be a matter of time before he discovers that we’ve been giving the Winter Soldier a nice, cozy place to sleep, especially since the internet’s in a tizzy about you and the Cap doing the horizontal tango.  I can protect Steve more than I can protect you, but I’m not even sure I can do that adequately right now, so you both need to leave.”

Bucky clenches his jaw, still surprised out of his mind.  “If you think it’s best.”

“Yeah.  Yeah, I do.”  Stark seems massively annoyed.  “I want to make something very clear here.  I’m going to bat for Steve.  I am.  This is…  Well, we know it’s partly my fault.”  Stark’s pained, struggling with what he’s saying.  Or to whom he’s saying it.  Both, probably.  “And not just this.  Ultron was my fault.  _Only_ my fault.  And after that, I ran off like a coward with my tail tucked between my legs and left it all for Steve to deal with.  I was afraid to go back out there, afraid I’d fuck things up again, but that’s not a good excuse.  I put Steve in a shitty situation, and I’m…  I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.”

Stark stops in his tirade to glare at him.  “I’m not apologizing to you.”

Bucky keeps his voice level.  “I know.  What I mean is thank you for helping him.  And thank you for admitting that.”

For a second, Bucky actually wonders if Stark is bold enough to hit him.  He looks like he wants to try.  That second passes, though, and Stark averts his heated gaze.  “Fuck if I wanted to admit it to you, either,” he hisses.  “I hate you.  There’s nothing you can _ever_ do to change that.  You understand me?  I don’t want you to misconstrue what I’m doing for Steve as something I’m doing _for you_ for one second.  I am not defending you.  I am not vindicating you or asking for absolution for you, not from the people of this world or from our government because _you don’t deserve it._ ”

That doesn’t slice as deep as maybe it should.  Bucky’s too worried about Steve to care about any of this right now.  “You shouldn’t have to, and I’m not asking you to.  I’m just asking you to help Steve.  Just like I did before.”

Stark pauses and nods, the ire cooling in his eyes.  “Steve _is_ my friend, and I owe him for taking on my mistakes when he had no cause to.  But I want to be damn sure that you know that I don’t condone you being with him any further than the fact it makes him happy.”  His voice softens more.  “And I know it does.  I know he loves you.  He needs you.  Right or wrong, he tore the world apart to find you, and I’m not putting him through that again.”

The gravity to that gives Bucky pause.  Stark’s right; it’s not absolution, but it feels close enough to acceptance of his presence in Steve’s life that he feels… _okay_ about Stark for the first time since coming here.  “So you want us to just go?” he says, feeling awkward and unsure.

Stark rolls his eyes.  “Hardly.  You two aren’t going to be roaming the country in some crazy super soldier reenactment of _Thelma and Louise._ ”  Bucky has no idea what he’s talking about.  “No, you’re going to some property I own in Aspen.  It’s remote, secure, secluded.  Peaceful.  Nobody’ll know you’re there.  It’s a perfect place to hide.  Besides, the distance might do Steve some good.  The distance and the scenery and the quiet.”

“For how long?”

“As long as it takes for this cluster fuck to blow over.  I’m going up against Ross.  He’s not going to bully us, bully _me_ , anymore.  I’ll go over his head to the President and the UN myself if I have to.  I’m going to get a new draft of the document they want us to sign with the provisions and safe guards in place, the ones Steve’s been requesting to mitigate the abuse of power.  With the public on Captain America’s side, the people in charge will have no choice.  Once that’s done, it’ll be settled.  We can put this thing to rest.  I’ll get the team to sign, and everything will be good.  Steve will…  Well, he’ll have to sign it when he comes back.”

 _When he comes back._ Bucky’s lips move of their own accord.  “What about me?”

Stark frowns.  “I told you before.  There’s no chance in hell you’ll ever be an Avenger.  That hasn’t changed.  The world’s leaders are never going to sanction you as a member of the team no matter how many agreements and documents you sign.”  Hearing that hurts, and the intimation of good will between the two of them wavers.  Bucky knows it makes sense, what Stark’s saying, but that _does_ slice deep, just as deeply as it has from the beginning.  _I can’t be an Avenger._

Stark sighs and shakes his head.  “Frankly I wasn’t going to ask or even mention it.  If I have points to spend with these guys, I’m sure as hell not going to waste them on you.”

Before Bucky can even think about it more, the door down the darkened hallway opens softly.  He rips around and sees Wanda coming closer.  Her hand’s shaking as she wipes at her cheeks, but that’s not enough to hide the hint of tears.  Bucky doesn’t want to pounce on her, so he stays put no matter how much he’s itching to know (and he’s _itching._   It’s damn unbearable).  She gathers herself and meets his gaze.  “I don’t think I can help him,” she admits softly.

“What?  Why?” Starks asks.

“You thought I could go into his mind, get down to the memories of you falling from the train and show him it wasn’t his fault.”  She stares at Bucky, and there’s nothing but pain and surrender in her expression.  “I can’t.  I tried.”

“He’s fighting you?” Bucky questions.

“He’s not doing it on purpose.  You did the same, the first few times we tried this.  But even if I could get him relax, get him to let down his defenses more…  I don’t think the memory is salvageable.”

Stark’s a combination of irritated and concerned.  “What the hell does that mean?”

Bucky catches on.  “He’s not remembering it right anymore.”

“He’s not remembering it the way you remember it at least,” Wanda says.  The fall was one of the memories they focused on in the past, trying to reconstruct the road that led him to HYDRA’s clutches, so Wanda probably has at least an impression of what really happened.  “Steve’s guilt has twisted everything, and there’s so much pain around it that I don’t know how to show him what’s real and what’s not.  He’s had so many nightmares about it that his subconscious has completely subverted the truth.  He truly believes your fall was his fault, and I don’t think I have the power to convince him otherwise.”

“But you fixed him, didn’t you?” Stark asks, glancing at Bucky.

Wanda nods hesitantly.  “With him, it was a matter of untangling and restoring the memories that came back as his mind healed.  It was about helping them speak again.  Steve’s situation is different.  The ones that are speaking are tainted.”

Bucky’s heart plummets.  He doesn’t know why he thought it would be that easy.  Not that what he went through with Wanda was easy at all, but it was a solution that worked.  “Where does that leave us?” he hears himself ask.

Wanda shakes her head.  “I don’t know.  I can try to work with him more, or maybe Vision will have better luck.  He’s less likely to be thrown off by Steve’s emotions.”  She lifts her shoulders in a small shrug that does nothing to hide how much Steve’s emotions upset her.  “Or maybe we can try again once he’s more settled.  I don’t know.”

It gets quiet.  Bucky’s reeling.  “Well,” Stark finally says.  His voice shakes.  “It’ll have to wait.  The jet’s ready to go.  I’m flying you out there myself, so get what you need.”

“Where are you going?” Wanda asks, looking scared.

“A safe haven,” Stark glibly answers, heading for the door.  “Or the closest we can get.”

* * *

As it turns out, what Stark says about the place isn’t far from the truth.  It’s buried in the mountains of Colorado, just about as remote as imaginable.  Given the time of year, the weather’s not very cold or snowy, but the air is crisp enough that Bucky finds himself wearing sweaters and watching his breath make a cloud of mist when he stands on the deck outside every morning to watch the sun strike the trees as it rises.  It’s definitely quiet and secluded, with no one for miles around the cottage (and “cottage” is something of a misnomer, because there’s nothing quaint about the sprawling, rustic mansion Stark is lending them.  It’s absolutely massive, a vacation home for the ultra-rich, and Bucky’s never seen something so fancy).  Nothing but thick forest, looming, snow-topped mountains, and endless skies surround them, and it’s freeing yet imprisoning all at once.

The silence in particular is difficult to accept.  It should be peaceful, but it’s not.  _Utopia._   _A safe haven._ Not quite.  All the times during the Depression, during the war, where he and Steve used to dream about going someplace really nice, experiencing the high life where things are expensive and clean and there are no guns or hunger or disease…  They’re finally there, but the circumstances are so wrong that it doesn’t feel relaxing or freeing at all.

The distance is nice, though.  Bucky figured he would have a hard time settling in in an unfamiliar location like this, particularly since he hasn’t left the Avengers complex since Sam and Steve found in him Europe, but he doesn’t.  It helps that he’s so focused on Steve.  Steve himself didn’t put up much of an argument about leaving the complex, which was pretty surprising considering how adamant he was just hours before concerning returning to duty.  Bucky didn’t think to be concerned about it until the first night they were here.  All of Steve’s animated agitation, the way he was pacing their suite back home and arguing about being okay, just disappeared.

Now he’s been sleeping.  A lot.  Bucky’s never seen him sleep like this, even back in Brooklyn when he was ill.  When Steve’s awake, he’s not talking, not engaging at all.  It’s bare minimum answers and not even the lies of before, the fake bravado about being alright and the sense of obligation that drove him to act normally.  All of that’s gone.  He hardly leaves their bedroom (although their bedroom’s as big as their entire suite back at the complex, so it’s hardly like there’s a need to).  He moves from the bed to the en suite bathroom to the deck to the seating area and then back to the bed again.  Once or twice Bucky coaxes him out to the spacious kitchen and dinette for meals, for the breakfast he’s prepared or the dinner he’s tried to make.  Steve just picks at his food, and Bucky’s attempts to talk about anything other than what’s happened always end in failure, so they sit in silence.  For weeks Bucky’s pushed Steve to admit and accept that he’s hurting, but now that he very clearly has, it seems like the hurt’s just overwhelmed him, like Steve’s opened the floodgates and everything that was held behind them is simply drowning him.  Bucky suspects it was the meeting with Wanda that pushed him over.  It’s as if that forced him to see that he’s really in trouble, that he really _is_ suffering.  Bucky knows how hard it can be when someone shoves a mirror in front of your face and makes you look at yourself.  It hurts like hell, and Steve’s falling hard.  He’s _fading_ right in front of Bucky’s helpless eyes.  That wasn’t what Bucky expected at all and not what he wanted.  He wants Steve to recover, to take a moment to breathe the fresh air and appreciate the glorious beauty around them and unwind and forget their lives _._   He wants to hold Steve and talk with Steve and laugh with Steve and make love to Steve.  He wants Steve to _feel good_.  This is about as far from that as possible.

This is depression, and Steve’s in it deep.

Dealing with that’s making the days drag and the nights difficult.  Bucky feels utterly isolated and even more helpless and frustrated than before.  Stark left them a phone at least, but all it will call is Stark himself and Sam.  Sam’s useful and a comfort besides, though Sam’s thousands of miles away and pretty much incapable of doing anything to help (although Bucky’s tried once or twice to coax Steve into talking to him on the phone.  That doesn’t work, the coaxing most of the time and the talking the one occasion Steve actually acquiesced).  Sam’s worried to death.  He keeps offering to come (to hell with Stark wanting them safely exiled while he deals with Ross), but Bucky turns him down.  It’s stupid, but no matter how hard this is and alone he feels, this is his responsibility.  His mission.  His duty.  Steve’s his, and he’s Steve’s, and he’ll be damned if he can’t figure out how to make this better.  And he’s not stupid; he knows Steve’s problems are beyond his capacity to fix.  Chronic, untreated PTSD requires the care of a doctor, not someone who’s about as damaged as they come.

But back when they were kids, he always knew how to get Steve through.  Every fight, every illness, every time they had no food and no money and no heat in their little shit box of an apartment…  He made it work.  It could be selfish and stupid, but his own sense of self-worth, _his_ autonomy, has inexplicably become tied to Steve’s.  Maybe it always has been.  If he has it in himself to believe in romantic drivel, he’d think they are soulmates, meant to be together, meant to carry each other, meant to balance one another.  Steve’s carried him for months, and now it’s his turn.

About a week into their stay, Bucky finishes washing the few plates from their dinner.  It was spicy thai noodles, a recipe Bucky found in one of the cookbooks in the kitchen (which look like they’ve never been read.  Just there for show, it seems).  It was good, something Bucky thought Steve would like, but Steve hardly had more than a couple forkfuls.  The rest went down the garbage disposal with Bucky staring darkly at it the whole way.  He could have put the dishes in the high-tech dishwasher, but he’s in no hurry to go to bed.  Steve already went up, and he’ll either be asleep or staring that fucking thousand-yard stare, and Bucky doesn’t know if he can stand it another night.

So he delays by calling Sam.  They’re talking every evening, and Bucky has to admit he’s appreciative of the little escape it represents.  Sam asks about Steve, and Bucky has nothing good or different to report.  They say the same useless shit, that Steve needs to talk, needs a therapist, needs an expert on stress disorder to help him cope, needs fucking medication if it would work on him.  It’s all as effective as screaming into the wind.

But then Bucky asks how things are going.  Everything they left behind, the press and Ross and the fight with Crossbones and the government trying to put a leash on the Avengers and the world finding out about their relationship…  It’s all still there, like some monster lumbering in the distant shadows.  He knows it’s there but it’s far away so there’s no sense in trying too hard to see it.  Sam says the fight Stark’s giving Ross is the stuff of legend, a black-ops like, covert, PR attack that’s undetectable save for the fact it’s going so well.  Public opinion is not on the government’s side, not anymore.  A great deal of information has “leaked” from anonymous sources about Ross’ past dealings with Bruce Banner and his ill-fated attempt to recreate the super soldier serum.  Despite his declarations to the contrary, Stark’s also made certain information about what HYDRA had to do to Bucky to create the Winter Soldier proliferate through the internet.  Sam obviously gave it to him because it was data he and Steve found during their hunt across Europe, reports that weren’t part of the SHIELD data dump.  Seeing that the Winter Soldier was tortured, brainwashed, a heroic POW turned into an unwitting and unwilling instrument of war…  Well, whatever angry outcry there may have been that Captain America’s gay and in love with the enemy has been absolutely drowned out by a wave of support.

That’s enough to turn another difficult day into something special.  Bucky smiles as he hangs up the call, and then he goes upstairs to tell Steve the good news.  Hopefully Steve’s still awake.

He’s not.  Bucky grunts in frustration as he stands in the doorway of the bedroom.  Steve’s turned on his side, his back to him with the sheets pulled tightly, almost protectively, up to his chin.  The image screams _stay away._   All the relief and happiness Bucky felt before utterly melts into the shadows.  Angry, he slips into bed next to Steve.  He’s not brave enough to touch him, and the couple feet between them feel like light years.

The next morning Bucky gets up with the sun.  The bed’s empty.  For a couple horrific minutes, he can’t find Steve, and all sorts of terrible thoughts race through his head, things he _never_ thought he’d ever think about Steve.  Maybe Steve’s left him, run off in the night to get away.  Maybe Steve’s hurt himself, done _worse_ to himself, and _Jesus that can’t be he’d never God almighty where is he where is he where is he?_

But he’s panicked over nothing, as it turns out, because Steve’s on the couch in front of the fireplace in the living room, cocooned under the cashmere throw that’s out there.  The blanket’s about two feet too small for his body, so his bare feet are exposed, and his hair’s softly mussed and his face is unshaven and his lips are pouty with the lower one sticking out the way it does when he sleeps sometimes, the way it always has since he was a little boy.  Bucky was so damn terrified that right now all he wants to do is climb into Steve’s little nest even though the couch probably isn’t big enough and that tiny throw _definitely_ isn’t.  He wants to climb in there and feel Steve’s warmth and know he’s okay, just like he has countless times in the past.  He wants to kiss him senseless.

Then he sees the tear tracks on Steve’s face, and that makes his heart hurt so badly that he just sits on the floor next to the couch and tries not to cry himself.

Steve obviously didn’t get much rest last night because he sleeps until almost noon.  Bucky’s in the middle of making another meal that’ll get fed to the garbage disposal when Steve staggers into the kitchen with a massive case of bed head and bleary eyes.  Bucky tries for a tentative smile.  “You want something to eat?”  Steve doesn’t answer, looking around like he doesn’t recognize this place before staring emptily at Bucky.  Like he can’t make sense of _Bucky_ in it.  Bucky tries not to let that perturb him.  He lifts his pan.  “Grilled cheese?  Dunno what kind of cheese it is.  Probably some expensive thing meant for something a lot nicer than this, but it tastes real good.”

Steve seems to snap out of his stupor.  “No, thanks.  Not hungry.”

Bucky can’t restrain his sigh.  “You need to eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

Now he just loses his patience.  “How long are you gonna do this?  Huh?  Not eat and not talk, walk around here like a fucking zombie?  I’m trying to help you, and all you do is shut me out!  Jesus, Steve, you’re killing me like this!”  He grabs a plate and throws the sandwich onto it.  Then he goes to the table, slams the plate down none too gently, and of course it breaks.  _“Fuck!”_  He’s tempted to let himself fall into the fire burning inside him, tempted to just finally surrender to the darkness.  He’s tired of fighting it.

He doesn’t, though.  He turns away, breathing through clenched teeth, forcing the anger down.  By the time he hauls himself back from the brink, Steve’s gone, and he’s left with a broken plate and a mess.

He doesn’t see Steve for most the rest of the day.  The mansion’s so big that they can easily avoid each other.  The distance between them feels larger than ever, more expansive and insurmountable than when they stood face to face on a helicarrier with Bucky’s mind wiped and Steve on a mission to save the world.  More devastatingly huge than when Bucky first came to the complex, vacillating between the hell of being the Winter Soldier and the uncertainty of being whatever he might become after.  Far, _far_ bigger than the long nights where he lashed out and hurt Steve, where his own confusion and hatred drove him to push Steve away.  He wonders now if he’s to blame, because Steve was so strong and sure through all that, and Bucky doesn’t know how to be that way now.  He can think this is his place and his job and his mission all he wants, shore up his conviction with memories from their life before the fall and the ice, but thinking something and knowing it are two very different things.  The trust between them, something that has lasted a hundred years and through countless challenges, has been damaged.

By the time late afternoon rolls around, he’s driven himself sufficiently crazy with his own bitter solitude, so he goes to find Steve.  He’s checking the living room when there’s a thud outside the front door.  Immediately he goes still, a cold wash of instinct shutting down his emotions.  On fast, silent footfalls he rushes to the window and presses himself to the wall beside the large stretch of glass.  Hidden, he spends a moment keenly listening.  A distant hum and a whir of rotors fills the rainy afternoon.  He spots what are clearly drones flying away from the mansion.

The phone in his pocket suddenly beeps.  He pulls it out.  There’s a text from Stark.  _“Check the front door.”_   That doesn’t exactly set him at ease, and he spends a second or two considering slipping into the kitchen to get a few knives to better prepare himself.  Eventually, though, he decides Stark wouldn’t bring them here to murder them after a week, so he carefully makes his way to the door and opens it.

On the spacious front patio, there’s a large, plastic crate.  After scanning the neatly trimmed lawn stretching away from the mansion and finding no sign of anyone, Bucky turns his wary attention to it.  Yet again he thinks about Stark’s motives here, and he’s half tempted to lug the crate into the woods and forget all about it.  He doesn’t, though.  There’s an envelope taped to the top, and on the front _“Barnes”_ is scrawled in what’s probably Stark’s inelegant handwriting.  Bucky takes it, breaks the seal, and reads the letter inside.

_Barnes,_

_I was thinking about what Wanda said about Rogers’ memories and how distorted they are.  I don’t know if this will be any help, but I guess it’s worth a shot.  Might make the $611 million price tag worth it, anyway.  It’ll definitely show him his own memories or yours, I guess, if that’s what you need.  FRIDAY’s installed on the phone in the crate, and she’ll help you get everything set up.  Don’t worry; I beta-tested this thing on myself and I’m still alive, so the odds of it frying your brain any more than it’s already been fried are probably pretty low._

_That was a joke._

_T. Stark_

_PS: No joke, though.  Mind the headache._

Bucky has no idea what any of that’s about, but the tone of the letter seems far more amicable than Stark was when they parted.  Face pinched in utter puzzlement, he regards the crate another moment or two before setting the letter aside and undoing the latches on the crate.  He lifts the top off, and inside there are four silver pillars in the corners and another suitcase in the center.  Everything is protected by dense, gray Styrofoam.  Bucky opens the suitcase and finds more Styrofoam molded around a smartphone and a pair of glasses with some extremely thin wires fanning out from the back of each temple.  Even more confused, he picks up the phone and powers it on.  The Stark Industries logo appears, followed by the words _Binarily Augmented Retroframing._   “What the hell is that?” he murmurs.

“BARF,” FRIDAY responds from the phone as it loads into its home screen.

“Excuse me?”

“Mr. Stark needs a better acronym,” the AI comments, “or a better name in general.  The glasses use concentrated electromagnetic pulses to access certain parts of the hippocampus.  The neural impulses representing particular memories are decoded and sent to the holoprojectors to recreate the memory, if you will.”

 _Recreate the memory._   Carefully Bucky picks up the glasses.  “You mean I can relive it?”

“In a sense, yes.  The holograph will be complete with both visual and audio signals.  The wearer can also potentially alter the memory’s appearance.  Mr. Stark developed BARF as a tool to process traumatic events.  Even with his beta-testing, as he mentioned, it is still highly experimental.”

The enormity of what he’s holding is slowly sinking in.  This machine allows memories to be recreated, relived, seen again.  Seen by _more than one person._   He and Steve can wear this thing, project their memories out, and they can _see_ what the other’s thinking, feeling.  They can experience what the other’s experienced.  In that way, this is far more powerful than what Wanda did for Bucky, more powerful than what Vision did.  Bucky knew at the time that Steve always wanted to understand what it was like when they sorted Bucky’s memories with him, but he respected Bucky’s privacy about his sessions with them and never asked.

That’s not going to work here.  As Bucky stands there, staring at those glasses, he realizes _Steve’s_ memories aren’t going to work.  Steve’s memories are tainted, as Wanda said, by his own guilt.  Even if they weren’t, Steve’s memories aren’t going to show that Bucky doesn’t blame him for the fall, that what Crossbones said – _he blamed you for everything.  It’s your fault.  You let him fall. You couldn’t save him._ – isn’t true.  They need Bucky’s memories for that, Bucky’s very disjointed, screwed-up, twisted-around, unclear memories.  So unclear, in fact, that Bucky’s still not sure what Crossbones said isn’t true.  Out comes all his doubt again, the doubt he’s been keeping at bay for days.  He _loves_ Steve, loves him more than anything, but can he say for certain that he never once hated him for what happened?  Not _once_ in seventy years of torture and devastation?  Not even when they strapped him into the chair and told him to assassinate Captain America?

How can he be sure when _his_ memories have been twisted, too?

Exhaling shakily, he sets the glasses back in the case.  “FRIDAY, help me set this up.”

For the next couple hours until it’s dark, Bucky works to get Stark’s holoemitters in place.  He clears a sizeable area in the living room, pulling the couches and coffee tables to the side.  He rolls up the rug and props that against the wall.  Then he puts the gray pillars in place, forming a square that’s maybe twelve feet wide and just as long.  FRIDAY diligently guides him through setting up the computer, which is in another case below the one with the glasses.  He has no clue what he’s doing, but she helps him step by step until the room is ready and the system is calibrated.

Then he stands in the center of it.  The glasses are on the crate to the side.  He looks at them, his heart pounding, afraid to breathe.  He has no idea what he’s doing.  Still.  _No fucking clue._

_I have to do something.  I have to save us._

Softly he pads through the darkened mansion to the bedroom.  Somehow he just knows Steve will be there.  He is, and about three steps into the bedroom Bucky knows nothing’s better.  He was stupidly hoping it would be so they wouldn’t have to do this, but _nothing’s_ better.  Steve’s standing at the huge windows that stretch from floor to ceiling and cover the entire side of the bedroom.  It’s raining heavily now, and because of that it’s deeply dark outside with no light from the moon or stars.  Bucky can’t even see the trees that embrace the mansion, the pretty ones that are right beyond the deck outside.  He can’t see the deck itself, can’t see the rain he can hear on the roof.  He can’t see _anything,_ like there’s this sable void outside the mansion, a pitch-black abyss, and Steve’s staring right into it.

 _Jesus._ “Steve?”

Steve doesn’t turn around.  He’s dressed in cotton sleep pants, the sheets and duvet rumpled on the bed like he’s tossed and turned for a while.  The lights in the room are dim, so it seems like that darkness is invading, sneaking inside to mark more of its territory.  “I’m tired, Buck.”

It’s the first speck of something truthful, something Steve’s honestly volunteering, in what feels like forever.  “I know, sweetheart,” Bucky says.  Maybe this isn’t the best time to do this.  Maybe it’s not the best thing to do at all.  He can see Steve’s reflection as he takes a couple steps closer, and it’s dim and hazy and full of anguish.  He doesn’t want to add to that.

_No.  You have to show him._

“Come with me,” Bucky calls, reaching out his flesh and blood hand.  Steve still doesn’t around, doesn’t respond.  Bucky stays still and patient.  “Steve?  Please.  Come with me?”

It seems he won’t for a torturous moment, but Steve finally does shift, looking over his shoulder.  Their eyes meet, and it feels like it’s the first time in forever they’ve seen each other.  Bucky smiles softly.  “Please, Stevie.”

Maybe it’s the nickname or the way Bucky says it, like he used to back when they were kids.  Maybe Steve’s finally ready, too worn out and beaten down to fight this by himself any longer.  Whatever the reason, Steve steps away from the window.  He doesn’t take Bucky’s hand as he comes closer, but Bucky takes his, weaving their fingers together.  Keeping everything as serene and nonthreatening as possible, he leads Steve through the hallways and down the stairs to the living room.  The lights automatically get brighter as they enter, though not harsh or blaring.  Everything’s a gentle, tranquil tone.

Steve still stops when he sees the weird setup.  He goes tense.  “Buck, what’s going on?”

Bucky leaves him at the perimeter of the holoemitters, crossing the square to reach the crate and take the glasses.  He runs his fingers over the arms of them, sliding his thumbs down their fragile length.  “I want to show you…”  _The fall.  The fact that I fought.  I fought every step of the way.  I know I did.  I never blamed you, never hated you, and they had to torture me to turn me against you, Steve.  They had to take everything I knew and ruin it…_

That’s the thing, though.  It’s _not_ ruined.  They’re together now.  HYDRA’s dead, and they’re together.  And what may or may not have happened, whose fault it was that Bucky fell, that HYDRA captured him, that their lives were taken and twisted the way they were…  Whose fault it is that Steve’s been so burdened and broken by things beyond his control… 

_It doesn’t matter._

The fear, the doubt, finally goes away.  Bucky knows what he has to do.  “I want to show you the truth.  The only one that matters.”

Steve doesn’t understand.  “Buck?”

“Why didn’t you tell me that you thought I blamed you?” he asks softly.  He asked that before, days ago, and Steve never answered.  Now he has to know.  “Why didn’t you tell me?  All this time…  Baby, why didn’t you trust me?”

Steve’s chin trembles, and he bites his lower lip.  “I didn’t…  I didn’t want you to feel worse about it.  I didn’t want you to be angry.  Most of all, though…”  He looks down.  “I guess I didn’t want to risk it being true.”

“It’s _not_ true,” Bucky says.  “Not now.”

“But what about then?  What Rumlow said–”

“Rumlow’s a liar and a murderer and a _coward._   He was trying to hurt you.  And even if he’s right, it doesn’t matter.”

“Buck–”

“No.”  Bucky’s back with Steve in a few huge steps, standing right in front of him and cupping his face.  _“No._   I thought I could put these glasses on and show you what _I_ remember.  Show you that there was nothing you could have done on the train when that HYDRA bastard blasted us and blew it open.  Show you that you couldn’t have saved me no matter how fast and strong you are.  I wanted to show you that I hung on when they took my mind, that I fought when they programmed me to come after you and kill you.  I really did.”  He shakes his head.  “But I can’t.  I can’t even if I wanted to, and I don’t want to.  Not anymore.  No more bad memories.  No more darkness.  No more pain, Steve.  There’s too much on you already.  Too much on us.”

“Bucky…”

“It doesn’t matter how we got here.  We’re here.  It doesn’t matter _whose_ fault it is.  It happened!”

“Please, Buck.  I don’t want to–”

“I want you to feel good.  I want you to feel _whole_ again.  I want you to _know_ you’re good.  I want to show you the truth, and I want you to trust me.  Can you trust me?”

Steve’s not sure.  With how hard he’s fought to keep everything inside for _months,_ letting down the walls and letting someone else in, it feels impossible to do that: trust.  Bucky knows.  He knows just how hard it was.  “I told you,” he whispers, “that you never have to go it alone.  Remember?”  Steve nods.  “And when I was low and hurting and I didn’t think I could do it, you told me.  Now I’m telling you again.  I’m with you forever.  Please, baby.  Please believe me.”

The mansion’s still.  The system’s waiting.  Bucky’s waiting.  “It’s alright,” he promises again.  “It really is.  I’ve been saying that a lot, but I know it now.  Trust me.”

Steve nods jerkily, like he’s afraid he’ll change his mind if he lets himself really consider it.  Bucky doesn’t let him.  Quickly he backs up and slides the glasses on.  He taps the phone with FRIDAY, and the system quietly whirs to life.

It’s definitely a weird feeling.  The machine HYDRA used to use to erase his memories was awful, like bolts of lightning raking across his brain.  This is just an uncomfortable tickle, not something he can’t overcome and control.  And he does control it.  It’s surprisingly easy to remember what he wants to remember, to think of what he wants to see, and the glasses pick up the image and pass it to the computer and the holoprojectors, and suddenly…

Suddenly they’re back in Brooklyn, back in their old apartment.  It was the height of summer then.  Bucky can almost feel the sweltering heat, even though there’s no way the system can possibly recreate that.  There was an old record playing a jaunty dance number, and swinging like ghosts across a dance floor…

“Oh, my God,” Steve breathes, eyes wide.

The young James Barnes from the memory grinned like a loon, pulling little Steve Rogers closer.  They were both in suspenders and light shirts and dark trousers, both sweating like mad.  It’s a little strange seeing themselves, but the weirdness disappears quickly, swept away by the sweetness of the moment.  Young Bucky was teaching young Steve to dance, the Lindy Hop, and Steve was utterly hopeless.  _“Come on, Rogers.  Quit lookin’ down, ya mook.”_

 _“Tryin’, Buck.”_   Little Steve smiled as he tripped over his clumsy feet again, collapsing into Bucky’s arms.  Bucky can remember how wonderful it felt to catch him.  They were laughing like idiots.  _“I’m awful.”_

They got themselves untangled more or less, but it was all handsy teasing and groping from here on out, and it ended up with them both on the ratty couch, Bucky on top and kissing him like crazy.  _“You ain’t awful.  Can’t be with such a great teacher.”_

  The memory fades and becomes hazy as Bucky loses his grip on it.  He forces his thoughts to another moment, and it’s their apartment again only their bedroom, and little Steve was sitting on the cot, knuckles split and nose oozing and eye swelling shut.  He can’t be more than eighteen years old.  _“Christ, Stevie, you can’t keep doing this.”_   Bucky in the memory is crouching in front of him with a bowl of bloody water and a rag and a little brown bottle of witch hazel.  Again, senses supply missing details, and the pungent smell almost seems real.  _“You can’t keep putting yourself in front of every bully’s fist in Brooklyn like it’s some God-given quest.”_

 _“Couldn’t stand there doin’ nothin’, Buck.”_   Steve was wheezing.  _“They woulda hurt her.”_

_“So they hurt you instead?”_

_“Doesn’t matter.”_   The wheezing got worse.  _“I’m fine.”_

 _“It matters, Stevie.”_   Bucky cradled his face.  _“It matters to me.”_

And other memories.  Here and now Bucky blinks and things shift again to an alley outside the train depot.  It was the only safe place they could kiss, and they were kissing deeply, passionately, two lovers hiding in the shadows to say goodbye.  Steve was clinging to Bucky’s suit jacket, bony fingers tight in the wool, forehead braced to Bucky’s chest.  Bucky’s heart was pounding then like it is now.  _“It’ll be okay, love.  I promise you.  I’m gonna be safe over there.  And I’ll be back before I ship out.  You know that.  This ain’t it.”_

 _“I’m coming with you.”_   The whisper feels thunderous.  Little Steve clutched tighter.  His eyes were tightly closed, leaking tears, and in the memory Bucky carded his fingers through the fine blond hair at the back of Steve’s head.  _“I’m enlisting and I’m coming.”_

_“I don’t want you to.  Steve, please, don’t.”_

_“Can’t be without you.  Can’t let you fight while I stay where it’s safe.  Can’t let anyone fight like that.”_

_“Steve–”_

_“I’m finding you, Bucky.  No matter where you are, I’m finding you.”_

More.  As Bucky moves through these recollections once stolen from him, he feels more and more certain.  Deeper and deeper love.  _“Who you writing to, Barnes?”_ That’s Dugan.  The scene shifts to an army camp.  Bucky can’t remember exactly where this is.  Somewhere just outside of Azzano.  The men of the 107th Infantry who would become the Howling Commandos were gathered around a small fire, and Bucky was writing a letter by its paltry light.  They hadn’t yet seen serious combat, so the weariness and strain were absent from their faces.  Dugan puffed on his cigar and leaned back against his pack.  _“Sweetheart back home?”_

The swell of secret pride feels real and present.  _“Yeah.”_

_“Waiting for you back there?”_

_“Better be.”_

At Azzano itself.  The dark room in the wing where Zola took Bucky and some of the other prisoners.  The others were all dead, and the horrors were swarming in the shadows, but there was so much light.  The holoemitters show that, the illumination around Steve’s face as he leans over the table upon which Bucky’s laying.  Bucky’s not sure now that it was ever there, if he imagined it and the system is treating his false impressions as truth, but he’s willing to believe.  And the rush of relief, of happiness, of joy…  That comes again.  Steve’s face was fuller, filled with vitality and health, and he was taller and so much bigger and stronger, but his blue eyes were the same.  _“Stevie?”_

 _“I got you, Buck.”_   The straps were ripped away, and Steve lifted him off the table and into his arms.  _“God, Bucky…  I have you.”_

_“You found me.”_

_“Said I would.”_   The kiss they shared was rushed and tasted of tears. _“I’m gonna get you out.”_

The image dissolves once more before their eyes, and Bucky shivers with the onslaught of emotion.  The power of what he felt, how he feels now, surrounds them, and when he looks again he sees twilight across a summer’s field, grass blowing and rolling in the wind like waves, the sweet, fresh smell of rain and soil.  He doesn’t remember exactly where this is, either.  It may be one of dozens of moments like this during the war, one of any number of places where he and Steve stole a quiet moment.  A peaceful moment.  A perfect moment.  They sat side by side, staring out over the golds and greens.  They didn’t speak.  They didn’t need to.  There weren’t words to express the comfort they gave each other, the profundity of the connection they shared, the power of their love, even in the middle of a war.

Steve reached between them to take his hand, raising his callused fingers, bloodied and grimy from the latest skirmish, to his lips to kiss them.  Bucky leans into his side.

It goes on and on.  It takes so much, but Bucky keeps all the nightmares at bay, wards away the darkness, focuses on the good.  On _so much_ good that the war and HYDRA and the difficult lives they lead now can’t touch or tarnish.  The night they went out in London.  Making love under the stars in an old barn in Italy.  Laughing with the rest of the Commandos.  The last kiss they shared before the mission to capture Zola in a snowy nook of the Alps.

And after the fall.  He refuses to look into the shadows.  Not now.  There’s no need to now.  Instead, he lets the moment where he _knew_ Steve come, the street in DC, the first touch of something pure and powerful breaching the vast emptiness.  _“Bucky?”_

_“Who the hell is Bucky?”_

The anchor.  Steve’s blue eyes, right on his.  Unyielding and unwavering.  Not so much now, now that Steve’s been hurt so badly.  Bucky doesn’t let that deter him.  No, he lets the dreams he had when he was on the run, jumbled and confusing but always of Steve, wash over him.  They fill the room with light.

 _“You pulled me from the river,”_ Steve said, dressed in Captain America’s dark blue with the flag down his midsection and the star on his chest and the shield on his back.  They were standing in Bucky’s rat hole apartment in Bucharest with its mattress on the floor and its dirty windows covered in newspaper.  Steve stared right at him.  _“Why?”_

 _“I don’t know,”_ the Winter Soldier – no, _Bucky_ – said.

There was never a second of doubt.  _“Yes, you do.”_

Then they’re back at the complex.  Bucky was pacing inside the bathroom, ripping at his hair after a nightmare that he wouldn’t let himself acknowledge, not then and not now.  The way the scene is rendering, Steve’s on the other side of the holographic door.  Bucky stares at him, stares at his eyes, as his voice fills the room, so steady and strong.  _“You don’t have to be afraid.  No one’s going to hurt you here.  HYDRA’s gone and dead.  You don’t have to be afraid anymore, Buck.”_

_“I’m not Bucky!  I’m not!”_

_“You are.  You can be again.”_

The panic.  The terror.  The hope for something he couldn’t name at the time.  _“Get away from me!”_

There was a pause.  In the memory, Bucky stared at the door.  He watches himself now and remembers how his eyes stung with tears and how his body ached with a desire for comfort.  He watches now and remembers how desperately he hoped Steve _wouldn’t leave him._  

And Steve didn’t.  _“I’ll wait right out here, okay?  Take your time.  I’m here.”_

So many moments like that, slow steps toward recovery.  Steve holding and supporting him _every step of the way._  

_“You…  You loved me, didn’t you?”_

They were in their bedroom back at the complex.  It was late that night, late when Bucky finally started to piece the truth together.  Steve was sitting at the desk, his face awash with pale light from his laptop.  His face was lax and loose, not betraying his reaction, but his eyes were filled with hope.  _“Yes, Buck.  Ever since I knew what love was I’ve loved you.”_

Bucky stood in the doorway, afraid.  _“Do you…  Do you still?”_

Steve’s smile, as sweet and pure as it’s always been.  _“Yeah.  Of course.  Always will.”_

The kiss that came maybe should have been tentative and awkward, but it wasn’t.  It was hungry, desperate, a hunt for remembrance and recognition.  Muscle memory came back first, muscle memory and sense memory, and Bucky can feel it now, how frantic he was to put some context to the things he knew he needed and wanted.  Always needs and wants.  The feel of Steve’s lips and the taste of Steve’s mouth and the details that used to be ingrained into him but were ripped from the very fabric of his body and soul.  He remembers that.

And he remembers after.  After they made love for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, with Steve asking over and over again if it was okay, if Bucky wanted this, if he felt good.  This was months ago.  He didn’t know much about his past at the time, but he remembered the feel of Steve’s body under his hands, the heat of him around him, the sense of safety and purpose.  He remembered that, and that was all he needed to know it was right.

Still, after, he was laying on top of Steve in their bed, head on Steve’s stomach, body between Steve’s legs.  He was sated and spent and finally feeling good.  They see it now as the memory unfolds before them, peaceful and beautiful, and Bucky traced the hills and valleys of Steve’s belly.  Steve was breathing softly, his abdomen rising and falling evenly, and he was drifting to sleep.  They both were.

Until he touched a spot right above Steve’s navel.  It wasn’t visible then, but that was where…  _“I shot you here.”_   Bucky’s voice was soft.  His thumb shook as he swept it over the area.  _“I shot you.”_

Steve went still.  Sometimes Bucky still recalls things in this way, and it happened quite often in the beginning when his life was new to him.  Triggers and provocations and sudden connections.  Neural impulses coming to life as his brain healed.  It didn’t always make sense.

This does, though.  This makes perfect sense, why his mind would bring them here.  Why his heart would want to show them – show _Steve_ – this seemingly random moment in a lifetime of devotion to each other.  Bucky in the memory finally found the courage to lay his palm, his metal palm, right over the spot.  There was no scar of course, but they both knew it had been there.  More scars on their hearts rather than their bodies.  _“I shot you.  Here.  And here.”_ His hand drifted down, lifting Steve’s left thigh and brushing the back of it over the unblemished skin there.  _“And here.”_   His fingers reached up to Steve’s right shoulder.  _“And I…  I stabbed you.  Cut you.”_   Bucky’s voice tremored.  _“I cut you everywhere.  I almost killed you.”_

They were silent.  Across the living room, Bucky tries to catch Steve’s gaze, but Steve’s looking down.  Tears drip from his lowered face.  He’s not watching, but he doesn’t need to.  The rest of the conversation plays out exactly the way they _both_ remember.  _“It wasn’t your fault, Buck.”_

_“Yes, it was.”_

_“What you did back there…  What you did all those years…  It wasn’t you.  You didn’t have a choice.”_

_“I know.  But I still did it.  I still…  I still hurt you.”_

_“It doesn’t matter.”_

_“So many fucking times, Steve.  Christ, all this time, when I lost control–”_

_“Don’t.”_

_“I hurt you.  I hurt us.  I–”_

_“It wasn’t your fault.”_   Steve’s voice rose, and he propped himself up on his elbows to look down at Bucky.  He shook his head.  In the darkness, his eyes were calm and deeply blue and full of faith, like they always were.  Like they always used to be.  _“Bucky, it wasn’t.”_

_“Steve…”_

_“And even if it was, it doesn’t change anything.”_

_“How can you say that?  How can you know it?”_

_“Because I know you.”_   Steve swept the dark hair from Bucky’s face.  _“I know you, and I know you did everything you could to fight.  I could never blame you, Buck, not for any of it.  I love you too much to ever doubt that you’re a good man.”_   In the memory, Bucky gave a teary smile.  _“We’re together now, and that’s all that matters.”_

The memory fades like ghosts slipping away to peace.  The room goes dark and silent.  Bucky feels the rest of his body again, a little dizzy and tingling, as he reaches up to take off the glasses.

Across the way, Steve just collapses.  He goes down hard on his knees, face buried in his hands, and a ragged sob breaks out of him.  The cry escalates into a soft, keening wail, and Bucky’s eyes flood at hearing it, at the pain Steve’s feeling and finally, _finally_ expressing.  He swallows down a stronger sense of nausea, getting his bearings.  Then he sets Stark’s glasses to the case before walking on quiet feet to stand in front of Steve.  Steve’s hunched there, quaking, weeping unabashedly.  The second Bucky gets close enough, Steve grabs for his legs, grabs and holds on so tightly that it hurts.  “I’m sorry, Buck!” he moans around hitched breaths and soft whimpers.  “I’m so sorry!”

Bucky ignores that and threads his fingers through Steve’s hair where his head is pressed to his stomach.  “I know you too, you know,” Bucky says.  Steve’s breathing hitches worse.  “I know you.  And I know you did everything you could.  I know you would have torn the world down to find me, burned HYDRA to the ground to save me.  I know you would have taken my place.  Even though I’d never want that, I know you’d do it in a heartbeat.  I know you’d risk everything to defend me.  I _know_ you, Steve.”

“Bucky…”

“How could you think I’d blame you?” he asks softly.  Steve shivers and grips even tighter.  “How could you think that?  How could you let it destroy you like this?  How could you tell me something, what I needed to hear, and not believe it for yourself?  Baby, please, _please._ ”  He pries Steve’s fingers away and crouches in front of him.  Steve’s eyes are squeezed shut.  “Look at me, Stevie.  Please.”  It takes another second or two for Steve to do that, for him to find his strength again and meet Bucky’s gaze.  “How could you ever think you needed to kneel before me and beg forgiveness?  God, Steve…  _Never._   You never have to do that.  Not for me.  Not for anyone.”  He cradles his face and brushes away his tears.  “You never have to lay yourself down at the feet of those you couldn’t save.”

Steve blinks, and for the first time in what feels like forever, Bucky sees _him_ in his eyes, sees the man he loves, start to emerge from the pain.  He leans forward and kisses Steve, sweeping his thumbs along his jawline as he deepens it.  Steve opens his mouth, lets Bucky take, but this feels far more relaxed, more pliant and comfortable.  It’s the first time they’ve kissed since they’ve come here, and it feels good, like truth and pleasure and purpose mixed together in one sweet affirmation.

Bucky finally pulls away.  He takes a breath, bracing his forehead to Steve’s and closing his eyes.  “This is just one step on a really long road.  You know that.  It’s gonna hurt, and it’s gonna take time to get better.  It took me forever and a day to forgive myself.  But if I could do that with you by my side, you can do it, too.  With me standing right by you.”  Steve breathes heavily, letting those words in, _feeling_ them.  Then he nods.  Maybe it’s premature, but that feels like something.  Bucky smiles, wrapping an arm around the back of Steve’s neck and pressing his lips to his forehead.  “But we can take the next step tomorrow, okay?  Let’s go to bed.”

They make it up to the bedroom and settle into bed.  The shadows don’t seem so pressing anymore, not so much an endless abyss around the room as a cradle of tranquil night.  Steve lets Bucky hold him, lets him kiss his hair and run his hand up and down his back like always.  The silence isn’t so painful, either.  It feels okay.  Everything feels okay.  The rain against the windows and roof is gentle and lulling.  Steve’s relaxed, breathing deeply, sleeping maybe, and Bucky lets his mind drift, lets himself hope that maybe this is the start of Steve’s own recovery.  The first step on a long road, just like he said, though where that road is going…

“I’m tired, Buck.”

Bucky was hardly dozing, so he snaps out of it quickly and looks down at Steve where he’s in his arms, head against Bucky’s chest, hand flat on Bucky’s belly.  Bucky caresses his shoulder and leans down to kiss his hair again.  “Then sleep, Stevie.  I’ve got you.  Don’t be scared.”

“No, not…  Not…”  Steve exhales slowly.

Bucky moves his other hand to hold Steve’s, and he rubs his thumb over Steve’s knuckles in soothing circles.  “Tell me.”

Steve sighs again, hesitating until Bucky’s afraid he won’t continue at all.  He _knows_ one moment of understanding doesn’t equate to a breakthrough.  Those are nice in theory, but they don’t always pan out, don’t always carry the importance and power one thinks they should.  That long road is unavoidable in a way, and it’s terrifying.  “Baby, you can talk to me,” Bucky prods gently, just as Steve always has for him.  “Talk to me.”

Steve shivers but settles again.  “I’m tired of this.  I’m tired of…  I’m tired of being Captain America.”

Bucky closes his eyes.  _There it is.  Finally._   The truth.  The admission and the acceptance.  It takes him a little by surprise, both that Steve’s feeling what he’s been suspecting all this time and that Steve is actually saying it.  The weight of the shield, the symbol, the responsibility and the heartache and stress and trauma that comes with it… 

Steve’s voice wavers, but he keeps talking.  “I’ve been trying for four years.  Four years.  Led the Avengers for four years.  And the years we were at war before that.  It feels like…  Sometimes I feel like it’s really been a century, that I’ve been trying that long, fighting that long.  I used to be inspired and hopeful.  I used to think this was noble, that the safest hands are our own.  I’m not so sure now.  And now I… I don’t even know what I’m fighting for, Buck.  Not now.”

“You’ve done so much,” Bucky murmurs.  “Saved the world.  Died for us all.  You’ve taken on so much, Steve.  No one can ask anything more of you.”

Steve doesn’t say anything more then.  Not at first.  Then there’s a quiet moan against Bucky’s chest.  “I don’t think I _can_ do any more.  I don’t think I can…  I can’t do this anymore.”

“You don’t have to.  You can walk away, Steve.”  Bucky tries to keep his voice inflectionless, free of his opinion one way or another, but it’s hard.  The second he says it…  “You don’t have to keep being Captain America.  It’s crushing you.  You shouldn’t be a sacrifice or a martyr to their cause.”

“They created me to be a soldier.”

“To fight a war that’s been finished for seventy years.  This war you’re fighting now…  Is it for what you want?”  Steve doesn’t answer.  “Give up the shield,” Bucky whispers.  “Hand the team to Stark.  We can…  We can go away, you and me.  Just you and me.  We can find a quiet place somewhere.  Live the simple life.  Maybe a farm, back in Indiana…”  He has very vague memories of his early childhood, but he faintly recalls sprawling green pastures and his folks driving down a dirt road in a beat-up truck, a sense of perpetual quiet and stillness he’s never felt since.  “Or go home to Brooklyn.  You can draw like you used to, and I can loaf around and talk about the cinema and baseball and all that.  Remember how nice it was?  Or…  We can go anywhere, Steve, do anything.  Be anything.  Have the life we wanted.”

It’s silent.  Then there’s a meek, hopeful, “You think we could?”

Bucky smiles.  “Sure.  We can get away from it all.  No missions that need to be won or fights that need to be fought or wounds you gotta hide.  You can let it all heal.  You can get better, _really_ better.  So can I.  We can get better together.”

Steve seems to think about that for a moment.  Then his thumb slips over Bucky’s fingers, a tender little caress that speaks volumes.  “Would you still love me if I wasn’t Captain America?”

“Oh, Stevie, God.  Of course, I would.  Of course I–”  The unmistakable sound of a muffled snicker has Bucky rolling his eyes and feeling like a fool.  Then it’s all he can do to swallow down a happy sob.  “You’re a little shit.  Always have been and always will be.”

“But you love the uniform, Buck,” Steve says, a touch of his old sassy self in there.  God, nothing has ever sounded so good.  “More specifically, you love _my ass_ in the uniform.”

“Yeah, I do,” Bucky says, trying to speak through the huge smile on his face and blink away his relieved tears.  “But I love your ass in anything.”

“Or nothing.”

“Or nothing,” he agrees.  He lingers in the good feeling a moment, basking in it, luxuriating in it.  He lingers, because he still doesn’t want to think about what’s there in the distance.

Steve’s thinking about it, though.  Of course, he is.  And he says the obvious.  “I don’t think I can sign anything.  I don’t think I can do what Tony wants.  It’d be a lie, a compromise I’m making not because I believe in it but just to keep the peace.  I just…  He doesn’t understand, but after what I saw happen, after what they did to you, our own government twisted up with HYDRA…  I don’t think I can trust anymore.”  He sighs slowly.  “And even if I could…”

“Even if you could?” Bucky prompts gently, running his hand up Steve’s neck to card through his hair.

Steve continues on a shaky breath.  “Even if I could, they won’t let you be at my side.”

_I’ll never be an Avenger._

The rain falls.  Bucky lets out a gusty sigh of his own, one that feels just a bit like deflating.  “No.”  They don’t speak for a bit.  The silky strands of Steve’s hair slip between Bucky’s metal fingers.  He wishes he could feel it for real.  It’s okay, though.  It is.  “But no matter what you do, you know I’ll support you.  I’ll find a way to stay with you.”

“I know.”

“Let’s not make decisions now.  You don’t have to go back right away.  Don’t have to worry about anything.  Let’s just get you better first.”

“Could you…”

“What, doll?”

He can almost feel Steve’s weary eyes close as he nuzzles deeper into Bucky’s chest.  “Could you sing?  Like…  Like you used to.”

Bucky chuckles to hide his nervousness.  “Been years,” he comments, feeling his cheeks color.  “I don’t remember the last time.”

“I do,” Steve says.  “It was after Mom died, when you told me I didn’t have to be alone.”

 _Till the end of the line._   It feels like they should have hit that place dozens of times now, given Azzano and the war and all the close calls there, given Bucky’s fall and Steve downing that HYDRA plane in the ice shelf, given everything Bucky’s done and Steve leading the Avengers and the fight on the Insight helicarrier and the string of horrible nightmares since…  Yet they never have.  Or they have, but they’ve gone _past_ it.  Bucky wants to think about it that way, so he does.

However, he can’t remember what he used to sing, not that night after Steve’s mother’s funeral, not any of the nights before.  He scrambles to think, but nothing comes out of the fog for a bit.

Then something does.  A simple hymn from Mass that they sang on Sundays, that his mother used to sing to him at night.  A choral round. 

_Lamb of God, you take away the sin of the world.  Have mercy on us._

Bucky starts to hum the melody, the low timbre of his voice uncertain at first, but he quickly finds comfort and strength in it, confidence, so he puts the words to it.  Three beautiful words that endlessly repeat.  Three beautiful words that until now seemed impossible.

He feels Steve smile.  “Always liked that one.  Pretty.”

“Yeah.”  He looks down at Steve.  _Beautiful._   “Sleep.”

Steve does.  He sleeps, and it’s deep.  Serene.  Bucky hums far longer than he needs to, hums until he himself drifts away into comfort and silence.

_Grant us peace._

* * *

In the end, they don’t go back to the complex.

They stay at the mansion nestled in the mountains and forests.  Steve still sleeps, but it’s not the troubled sleep it used to be, at least not so outwardly.  He doesn’t snap out of it all right away, but he’s trying now, trying to talk about his nightmares, his troubles, his fears and anxieties and doubts.  Bucky listens.  They eat and walk outside and cuddle in bed and on the couch in front of the fire.  They talk and talk.  It’s not always easy.  Steve’s stubborn and willful and admitting to his troubles never comes easily to him, even when he realizes he has to do it.  Bucky’s patient, though.  He learned from the best about how to give space when it’s needed, gently push and coerce when distance won’t do, comfort when the pain spills out and it seems overwhelming.  Listen.  That’s the biggest thing he does, the most important thing Steve taught him when he was struggling so badly.  _Listen._

He listens to it all, the missions that have gone wrong, the shame and guilt Steve feels over the lives that have been lost, the frustration and the pain, the times he wished he’d made a different choice or a better one.  Bucky listens, and he doesn’t judge, doesn’t demean or dismiss Steve’s feelings even though he knows Steve’s being far too hard on himself.  Steve recognizes that before long.  Eventually, the understanding will sink into his mind enough that the guilt won’t be so sharp and cutting.  For now, Bucky’s content to remind him with gentle kisses and firm hugs and promises that he’s not to blame for things he couldn’t control, and the mistakes he’s made…  Repentance needs to be reasonable, not damning oneself for the rest of his life.  “You try to save as many as you can,” he reminds Steve, holding him tight as he shakes with the vestiges of another flashback.  “That doesn’t always mean everyone.”

“Maybe…  Maybe no one’ll get saved now,” Steve moans despairingly.  “If I give up…”

“You’re not giving up,” Bucky assures for the thousandth time it seems.  He’ll say it a million times until Steve believes it.  “You’re taking care of yourself.  That’s not selfish, and it’s not wrong.”

“Feels like it,” Steve says.  He shakes his head.  “Feels wrong.”

“That’s because you’ve never done it once in your life,” Bucky explains with a smile.  He presses his lips to Steve’s sweaty temple and hushes him.  “Trust me.  You’re entitled to be fine, not just _say_ you’re fine.”

So that’s what the time becomes about.  Steve taking care of himself.  Steve eating and sleeping.  Steve working out, but only because he wants to, not because he needs to.  Steve feeling _good_ again.  Bucky watches it all, feeling calm and satisfied.  This mission of his, the one he’s always had, the one he’s appointed himself…  It’s starting to be a success.

It’s not just his mission that’s going well, too.  Sam still calls every day, and he tells them Stark has so polluted the ocean of public opinion against Ross that the man _actually_ resigned.  It didn’t help matters that Stark Industries actually threatened to pull some of its more bigger government contracts and financial agreements, which would have caused a fairly massive problem particularly in the energy and telecom industries.  With that sort of pressure, Ellis pushed hard on Ross to step down and avoid more bad blood.  Word is now he’s running some sort of federal office in a remote and not so desirable location in Alaska, as far from the Avengers as he can be.

Also, Crossbones and his men cut a deal with federal prosecutors for the attack in Times Square.  They’re being held in a super max prison for murder, treason, and acts of terrorism.  Rumlow spends most of his day in isolation, so the odds of him ever getting a chance to come after Steve again or spread more filth about him are extremely low.  That’s a comfort.  After all the hell Rumlow’s caused, there’s a dark place inside Bucky that would have preferred seeing him with a needle in his arm, but he can make peace with that.  Stark’s also managed to bury the footage of Steve’s flashback during the battle, and, in typical fashion for the internet, people have already moved on to the next thing, the next scandal or video that’s gone viral or issue to get worked up about.  Steve and Bucky going into hiding worked just as it should, and the problem has died a quiet, boring death.

Efforts to regulate the Avengers have not, however.  In the wake of Ross stepping down, the United Nations has come more into the picture.  A coalition of 119 nations has formed to draft what they’re calling the Sokovia Accords.  According to Sam, this new document contains a great deal of what Ross wanted the team to sign before, but there are significant amendments to address Steve’s concerns about the agendas of those in charge and the abuse of power.  Otherwise, the Avengers now answer to the UN, to the _entire_ coalition of nations.  No one country or government can order their deployment.

Steve’s still not comfortable with it, but he’s doing what he said he’d do: focusing on himself.  To that end, he doesn’t publicly appear for the signing of the Accords.  He doesn’t check in for the missions the team’s conducting.  He doesn’t do a thing other than relax and give his mind a chance to start healing.  Therefore, they don’t go back.  They say the next day will be the day, but the next day comes and they spend it hiking.  They promise again to return tomorrow, but tomorrow they pass doing absolutely _nothing at all_ for the first time since 1943, and so on and so on.  Pretty soon this exile becomes more like vacation, like a fantasy of perfect solitude.  Life goes on around them, but they don’t know and they don’t care.  The problems and violence, the stress and the pain, the past and the future, the weight of the whole damn world…  They start to shrug it off and love each other.

A few weeks into their stay, the rest of the team comes knocking.  As Bucky pads to answer the door, he figures it was probably inevitable.  Still, he has somewhat mixed feelings seeing Sam, Wanda, and Natasha there.  Wariness bubbles inside him as they come in.  It feels just a bit like a threat, like an intrusion, like they’ll try to lure Steve back to the responsibilities and the pain that he barely escaped.

But they don’t really.  They don’t even stay long, don’t want to interrupt, but they want to see how Steve is.  He looks better, Bucky knows.  It’s made him endlessly pleased that Steve’s put on a little weight again, that the color’s back to his skin, that his eyes aren’t so sunken and distant.  He’s grown a bit of a beard.  Bucky’s never seen him this unshaven, and he has to admit that he likes it.  It’s surprising and off-putting to the others until Steve smiles that sweet smile of his and says, “I’m really fine.  Getting there.  Buck’s been watching out for me.”  That smile turns to Bucky, and it’s just about the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“Nothing’s the same without you, Rogers,” Natasha says.  Of the three of them, she’s having the hardest time with him not being there.  She’s trying her damnedest not to show it, but for once she’s really failing at hiding what she’s feeling.  “Stark’s good, but he’s, well…  Stark.”  Steve grins.  “Working with him is like having root canal with no novocaine performed by a dentist who doesn’t know the definition of TMI.  Although…  Since all of this, he’s been uncharacteristically non-hyperverbal.  For what that’s worth.”

Steve laughs lightly.  “Sounds like he misses me.”

“Or he’s realizing that there’s a shit ton of work you do,” Sam offers, “and it’s not all fun and games.”

“He knew that before,” Natasha says.  She smiles herself.  “In theory.”  Then her face softens.  “But I think even he thinks he’s just keeping your space warm until you come back.”

There’s what Bucky expected.  Given Steve’s unerring need to please others and offer himself up to whatever task needs doing, he expects him to be rushing out the door.   To his credit, though, Steve doesn’t.  “I’m just… not ready.  I don’t know when I’ll be.  I’m sorry.”

Natasha’s expression turns sad and fond at the same time.  Understanding.  “I know.”

“But you’re okay?” Wanda asks yet again.  She’s making no attempt at all to mask her concern.  “You’re… better?”

“Getting there,” Steve says.  “I, um…”  He shuffles his feet nervously.  Bucky’s been hanging back, trying not to speak or interfere, letting Steve have this.  It feels a little high-handed, but now that they’re into it, he wants to see if Steve can deal with it, too.

He can.  “I want to apologize to all of you.”  He looks to Natasha.  “Nat, I treated you rudely when you were trying to help me.  I’m really sorry.”

“Already forgotten,” Natasha says, and Bucky can tell she means it.  “We’ve all lashed out against our best interests now and again.  None of us is perfect.”  She grins coyly.  “Not even you, Rogers.”

Steve chuckles.  “No, definitely not,” he agrees.  His weak grin vanishes.  “And Wanda, well…  I’m sorry doesn’t really cover it, but it’s all I can offer right now.”

The disaster in India that seemed to instigate this chain of events is almost two months removed at this point and rapidly becoming a distant memory.  Wanda shakes her head, her expression surprised.  “Steve, you’ve apologized multiple times in the past.  Before you left…”  That makes Bucky wonder anew what happened back in the guest room of their suite that day Stark flew them here, but he still doesn’t press.  “I _know_ how sorry you are.  You’ve nothing to be sorry for.”

“No,” Steve says adamantly.  “No, not for… what’s wrong with me.  I’m sorry for ignoring it as long as I did.”  His eyes are clouded with guilt.  Not the gut-wrenching, irrational, _damning_ sort that was there before.  Just simple acknowledgement of a mistake.  “I thought I could handle it.  I thought I was stronger than it.  Honestly, after a while, I just didn’t care that it was happening, and that was wrong.  It was really wrong and really stupid.  I was your captain, and you were looking to me to do the right thing, and I failed.”  He sighs.  “I’m sorry I didn’t trust any of you with the truth.  And I’m very sorry I thought I could fight the way I was.  It crept up on me, and everything got messed up in my head…  But that’s not an excuse.  I’m a soldier.  I know what it is, how dangerous it can be.  I saw it in my men, and I saw it in my friends.  I saw it in Bucky.”  His gaze flicks to Bucky, and Bucky gives him a little nod.  “I should have seen it in myself.”

“Hey, it happens,” Sam offers.  “More often than you think.”

Steve turns back to Wanda.  Before he can open his mouth, no doubt to apologize again, she’s coming forward and wrapping him in a hug.  Her slight form seems nothing but big and powerful as she does.  “There’s nothing to forgive, Steve.  You got me out of there after it happened, protected me dozens of times before that.  You saved me from making the worst mistake of my life.  There’s nothing to forgive.”

The conversation dies after that.  Natasha hugs Steve too, murmurs something in his ear Bucky can’t hear.  It’s not his place to know.  Then they leave.  Sam lingers, though.  “You sure about this?” he asks with a little smile.  “Not that I think it’s a bad thing.  Just… never thought I’d see the day, I guess.  Captain America letting someone else handle the fight.”

“For a while, anyway,” Steve says.  “Yeah, I’m sure.”

Sam’s smile slips just a bit.  “Alright.  You deserve it.  You both do.”  Bucky gives Steve a little wink.  It feels good, very bold, and Steve blushes.  Sam rolls his eyes slightly.  “And I put a call into the therapist.  She’s going to be in contact with you later in the week.”

Steve grimaces just a little.  “Okay.  That’s fine.”

“It is fine,” Sam says.  He glances between them, suddenly looking a little uncomfortable.  “Well, we’ll get out of your hair.  Keep in touch, huh?”  He turns to follow Natasha and Wanda down the long walk to the driveway.

Steve doesn’t let him.  He springs forward and grasps Sam’s wrist.  “Sam, I, uh…  I just wanted to thank you for everything you’ve done.”

Sam grins.  “Nah, Steve, it’s not like we’re not gonna see each other – _hmmf!_ ”  Steve’s suddenly got him in another hug, a tight one.  Sam’s surprised for just a second before embracing back just as hard.  He squeezes his eyes shut.  “God, I was scared.”

“Don’t be,” Steve promises.  “I’m okay.”

They stay that way for a second.  Then Steve leans back, both his hands on Sam’s shoulders.  “When you get back, do you think you could keep an eye on things?  Help Tony.  Maybe make sure things run smoothly.  Keep the people with agendas from making too many decisions.”

Sam grins.  “I knew you weren’t just gonna let it all go.  What do you want me to do?”

Steve chuckles self-deprecatingly.  “Nothing really.  Use your own discretion.”

Brown eyes widen.  “Really?” Sam says, leaning back a little in an exaggerated show of surprise.  He whistles.  “Sounds like you’re putting me in charge of your end.  Doing the whole Captain America-thing.”

“There’s nobody I trust more,” Steve says.

Sam’s eyes are a big as saucers now.  For a moment, he just stares.  “You’re not serious.”

Steve stares, too.  Then he turns and heads up the steps to the higher floor.  Sam’s too alarmed to speak, and he watches the steps, looking overwhelmed.  For his own part, Bucky’s feels same.  Steve’s back a moment later with his shield.  All these days since they came here and he’s never once mentioned it or even looked at it.  Bucky hasn’t even been sure he was aware they brought it at all.  Apparently he knew exactly where Bucky placed it in the closet of the master bedroom, and now he’s bringing it down.  The light catches the gleaming surface, the concentric circles of red and silver shining beautifully.  The star glimmers as he holds it in front of him.  As he offers it to Sam.

Impossibly, Sam gets more shocked.  “No,” he says in a strangled voice, shaking his head.  “Nuh-uh.  I can’t take this.”

“Sam–”

“No _way_ I am taking this!”

“I can’t be Captain America right now,” Steve softly admits.  His eyes are clear and truthful.  Absolute.  “I can’t.  I’m not strong enough to carry the weight.  I haven’t been for a while.  But you are.  I know you are.  If you don’t want it–”

“Steve–”

“I don’t want to pressure you.  But like I said.”  Steve smiles and flips the shield effortlessly around, offering Sam the straps.  “There’s nobody I trust more.  Nobody worthier of it than you.”

Sam’s eyes go from the shield to Steve’s face and then back to the shield.  He exhales a breath he’s been holding.  He reaches forward, his hand hesitant at first but then more confident as it slides into the straps.  Once he has the shield on his left arm, Steve lets go and backs up.

Steve looks uncertain a moment, eyes glazed at he stares at the shield, but then he exhales and focuses on Sam’s face.  “Keep it safe?” he timidly asks.

Sam seems beyond words.  He nods.  Then he’s hugging Steve again, pulling him close and wrapping both arms around him so that the shield looks like it’s on Steve’s back.  It occurs to Bucky right then and there that that may be the last time he ever sees it that way.

A few minutes later, the car the others drove here is heading back down the long drive from the secluded mansion.  Steve’s watching from the window, and all the certainty and strength is gone from his face.  Bucky comes up behind him.  “You okay?”

He doesn’t answer at first, and when he does, it’s shockingly honest.  “No.”

“You didn’t tell me you were thinking about doing that.”  Honestly, beyond that night a little while ago, they haven’t much discussed the future.  If and when Steve would be ready to go home.  Home seems to have shifted drastically in the last few minutes (or days, maybe, when Bucky thinks about how they’ve gotten even closer as the world’s fallen further away).

“I didn’t realize I was,” Steve answers.  He still doesn’t turn around, staring at the sunny day and the empty road and the woods stretching around them.  “Just seemed like I needed to.  I needed to let it go.  It’s…  It’s not forever.”

“No?” Bucky asks, taking a few steps closer.

“The world needs Captain America,” Steve says.  “It does.  But Captain America is a symbol, and it can be worn by anyone, anyone who stands up and protects people.  And Sam does.  Sam has and Sam always will.”  Bucky can’t argue with that.  “So for now he can be what I can’t.”

A tender smile comes to Bucky’s lips.  He wraps his arms around Steve from behind, linking them over his belly and squeezing tightly.  His heart is positively swelling with relief.  “Proud of you,” he says, kissing Steve’s neck.  Steve grunts and grins just a little, gripping Bucky’s hands with his own.  Bucky pulls his metal one away and flexes the fingers a couple times, sighing.  “Wish I could just let this go like that.”

Steve smiles wider, taking Bucky’s hand, the one that HYDRA gave him so that he could be their fist, their weapon.  Steve raises it to his lips and kisses it, and that alone is enough to turn a symbol of ugly violence into just another part of who Bucky is.  Who they both are.  Two soldiers who have seen enough war to last a lifetime, who love each other through and through.

Scars and all.  There’s no sense in hiding them, no sense in feeling guilty or ashamed.  They’ve come this far, and every step they take now can only be another one forward.

* * *

_One year later_

There’s nothing like waking up next to Steve.  It was always something when they were young, two scrappy boys barely on the verge of manhood and trying to make their way in a vast world full of possibilities.  Bucky remembers it so clearly, the need to get up and get to work potent enough to scatter dreams from his brain but never so strong that he didn’t appreciate this.  Laying there and watching Steve sleep.  The pouty lips, the pale, smooth skin of his cheeks, those dame’s eyelashes of his, the angle of his nose, the floppy fringe of his blond hair.  The peace on his face, the unguarded openness.  Bucky could never deny himself seeing that.

Lately he’s been basking in it, drinking it in like an addict, because there’s no reason not to.  Like now.  The morning sun’s peeking in through the blinds on the windows of their bedroom, pretty beams that have settled on their bed like a welcomed interloper.  Steve’s on his stomach, taking up most the mattress in fact, with the sheets around his waist and his head buried in the pillows.  He’s breathing through his mouth, slightly open and flushed a perfect pink.  His hair’s all over the place, sticking up in spiky clumps.  He looks divine.

Bucky’s been watching him sleep for a while now.  He’s been laying there on his side, touching occasionally but mostly just committing every detail of this scene to memory.  It’s a silly thing he does sometimes, that he’s always done really, even before the Winter Soldier.  Appreciating what he has right now because it may not be there tomorrow.

_It’ll be there tomorrow._

Steve takes a deeper breath when Bucky chances lightly brushing a little bit of his hair off his brow.  His eyes don’t open, but his lips turn in a sly smile.  “Gonna stare all mornin’?”

Bucky grins himself and sidles closer.  “All mornin’.  All day.  All night.  Forever.”

“Sap,” Steve murmurs, pleased all the same.  He turns his face away as Bucky drapes himself over his bare back.  “Take a picture.  It’ll last longer.”

“Nah,” Bucky drawls.  He kisses Steve’s shoulder blade.  “Wouldn’t mind be able to draw like you, though.  Bein’ able to put all this down on paper…  I’d do nothing but that.  Draw you countless times, hang it all over the place till you’re sick of seeing yourself everywhere.”

“Hmm.  I at least have the decency to hide my dirty sketches of you.”

Bucky grins like a wolf.  “Didn’t say they’d be dirty.”

“I’m naked.  What else could they be?”

Then it sinks in.  He pauses in between planting more light kisses along Steve’s shoulders.  “You got dirty sketches of me?”

Now Steve grins, stretching under Bucky’s weight.  “Maybe.”

“Based on real life experiences?”  Bucky’s voice is a purr against Steve’s skin.

“M-maybe.”  Steve lifts his hips so Bucky can snake his hand underneath him.  “Maybe you should gimme some more inspiration, just in case they are.”

“That’s godawful,” Bucky mumbles, but he’s completely willing to oblige.  He gets his fingers around Steve’s manhood, already stiff from waking up, and lines wetter kisses down Steve’s spine, paying attention to every vertebra.  It’s a pretty self-indulgent metaphor, but he does feel like something of an artist, painting the contours and lines of Steve’s muscles like a blank canvas.  A musician, playing Steve’s body like an instrument he’s mastered, drawing breathy sighs and happy whimpers from Steve’s lips.  They’ve had sex like zealots ever since they left Aspen and came here.  Without the oppressive weight of everything they left behind, it’s been so good, so perfect.  Like it used to be back in Brooklyn when they lived alone, only even better in a sense because they don’t have to worry about being discovered.  They don’t have to fear or be ashamed.  They’re not Captain America and the Winter Soldier anymore.  Those rough days where their passion and love for each other was hampered by all the darkness around them seem so far away, a hazy nightmare that’s distant and growing more so.  For the first time in their lives, they’re just…

_Free._

“God, Buck,” Steve groans.  “Don’t tease me.”

Bucky hums, gripping Steve’s shaft harder to get him to lift his ass up so he can nip at a taut cheek.  “Seem to remember you asking me to tease you last night.  In fact, I seem to recall you _begging_ me to drag every part of it out.”

“That was last night,” Steve panted, squirming more in the sheets under Bucky’s weight as Bucky strokes him harder.  “Today’s a new day!”

“That’s true, and you want to start it off like this?”  Like they haven’t dozens of times before.

Steve hums again, but it’s tense with need.  “Definitely.  Now fuck me.”

“Bossy,” Bucky chides with a chuckle, but he’s as eager as ever to give Steve anything he wants.  _Everything_ he wants.  That’s his mission in life: make Steve happy.  It always has been and always will be.  Keep Steve safe and healthy.  Keep Steve happy.  _Be with Steve._

So he eases a spit-slicked finger inside Steve, who’s thankfully still a little wet and loose from their activities last night so it’s not as tight and hard as it could be for doing it so fast.  Steve’s rolling his hips between Bucky stroking his erection with one hand and thrusting inside him with the other.  Bucky adds another finger, stretching and spreading the digits apart quickly.  Steve’s reduced to pretty pathetic begging in short order.  “In, Buck,” he whines plaintively, arching his back.  “In, in, in–”

Bucky laughs, pulling away and relishing (just a little sadistically) Steve’s desperate, wanting cry.  “Like I can turn that down, baby doll.”  He clumsily leans over, fumbles along the floor where he thinks he heard the bottle of lube fall last night.  Steve grumbles and scooches over to help him, and a couple excruciatingly long seconds pass before he leans back up, grinning victoriously.  And he’s quick, long artist’s fingers doing their work well as he liberally coats Bucky’s erection with the slick liquid, leaving Bucky gasping and groaning, before none too carefully slathering some up inside himself.  Then he’s rolling over again onto his hands and knees, head down and rear up and legs spread, wantonly offering everything up to Bucky.

No matter how many times they have sex, _every_ time Steve does this makes Bucky’s vision gray just a bit with how much his heart pounds and how hard it is to breathe.  That Steve wants him like this, is willing to give himself up like this, is willing to take whatever Bucky decides.  It’s enough to make Bucky see stars, considering how much of Steve’s life he’s spent struggling for strength and control.  Lately, though, it’s been more about ceding that and not just here.  It’s been about being open and admitting to what hurts instead of clamping down hard against it and simply taking it.  Tearing down walls rather than shoring up their mortar and brick.  It’s been about liberation in a sense, and Bucky feels more than honored to see everything Steve’s accomplished in reclaiming himself.

So Bucky takes, but it’s with gratitude and reverence.  It’s all there, right before him.  Steve’s eyes and Steve’s hands and Steve’s body.  Steve’s trust and Steve’s life and Steve’s love.  Constant again, just as it should be.  Bucky grips Steve’s hips gently and pushes inside him.  For how desperate he was before, Steve’s relaxed now, undemanding and nothing but welcoming.  And for how frantic this began, it comes to fruition slowly, tenderly, Bucky rocking more than thrusting, Steve sighing with every movement.  They don’t speak.  No pleas or banter or silly, slurred sex-talk.  Not this time.  Bucky closes his eyes, laying his weight onto Steve’s back far more than he ever could before the serum.  Steve can bear it now, his arms strong as they hold them both up, his muscles languidly working when he pushes back to take Bucky even more fully.  He groans, shivering with pleasure, slick with sweat, panting with ecstasy.  Bucky wraps his arms around Steve’s middle, runs his hands up Steve’s chest, thumbs his nipples, feels the way they tighten, feels Steve’s lungs expanding against his ribcage and the rumble of his voice in another moan.  His flesh and blood hand goes higher, touches Steve’s face, runs over his nose and lips, feels the fluttering of his eyelashes.  Bucky can almost _see_ it, even with his eyes closed and his face buried into Steve’s back.  See the flush of rose on Steve’s cheeks and the shape of his mouth as he breathes hard through it and the color of his eyes, blown so wide in arousal the striking blue has nearly been swallowed by black.  Steve kisses his fingers, slips his tongue over them.  Bucky shivers at the teeth gently biting into his thumb as his deep thrust hits the sensitive place inside.  Steve almost sobs, clenching down, and it’s so good he wants to cry, too.  _Steve,_ he thinks.  He doesn’t think he can speak with the molten lick of pleasure building.  He’s close, so close.  _Steve, Steve, Steve…_

Unwilling to finish without Steve, he pulls his wet fingers from Steve’s mouth to drop them down to Steve’s erection.  Steve’s so hard it probably hurts, dripping pre-ejaculate into the sheets, and the second Bucky’s fingers close around the thick, hot, throbbing flesh, Steve softly cries out.  Bucky grasps Steve’s throat with his metal hand and pulls back gently, changing the angle and making it easier to stroke him.  Gritting his teeth in another desperate, reedy cry, Steve is stiff with need yet somehow so sweetly responsive to Bucky’s touch.  He’s not fighting it, not at all, and he’s close, too.  The rocking of Bucky’s hips pushes Steve’s hips forward, pushes him through the tight clutch of Bucky’s hand, and the heat is pulsing between them, harder and faster, utterly overwhelming.  Bucky imagines he can feel the pounding of Steve’s heart under his fingertips and the rush of air in his windpipe against his left palm.  He loses himself more in the storm of bliss inside, in the fact that Steve trusts him like this.  It’s overwhelming.

It doesn’t take more than a moment or two like this for Steve to find his climax.  He does so silently, shuddering and squeezing down harder on Bucky inside, coating Bucky’s hand and his own chest in his release.  The ripple of his inner muscles does Bucky in, and he loses what’s left of his rhythm completely, ending in a few sloppy, deep thrusts that leave them both quaking and clinging to each other just to stay sane.

Bucky completely collapses onto Steve’s back, and Steve buckles beneath him, so they both go down limply onto the bed.  For a while, they do nothing but breathe and feel and float.  Neither moves.  Neither speaks.  Bucky’s arms are trapped beneath them, and Steve’s are above his head, fingers reluctantly loosening their grip in the pillows.  Steve’s muscles flutter inside and out like final caresses, echoes of fading pleasure.  Bucky’s still drifting in that, in the warmth of Steve’s body, the rhythm of Steve’s heartbeat beneath his ear and the sound of air filling his chest, when Steve twists a little to angle around.  They finally kiss.

When Steve pulls away, he smiles muzzily.  “Love you, Buck.”

It’s impossible to feel better than this.  “Love you too, Stevie.”

* * *

It’s not a farm per se, but the house is tucked into a little corner of some nice acreage, surrounded by farms on all sides, so it’s close enough.  It gives the illusion of farming without any of the work, anyway.  They thought about going back to Brooklyn or moving to the west coast or the south or going basically anywhere really, but in the end they really do move close to Shelbyville.  It’s quiet, in the middle of middle America, and no one comes looking for them here.  With the beard Steve’s grown and the way Bucky is always careful to cover his arm, nobody thinks twice about the two of them at the local grocers or the library or walking down the streets.  The anonymity comes surprisingly easy, and it’s so nice to live like this.

A quiet, simple life.  Who’d have thought?

The house isn’t much, comfortable but hardly extravagant.  With Steve’s army back pay and the salary he earned from SHIELD, they could have afforded a lot more.  Both their mothers taught them well about the tenants of frugality, though.  Waste not, want not.  They only bought what they need, and what they need isn’t much.  Food and clothes.  Basic bills.  A pick-up truck because why the hell not?  Bucky’s found he likes cooking, so they splurge a little on nicer pots and pans and the expensive utensils and fresh herbs and seasonings.  He’s gotten pretty damn good at it, if he does say so himself (and Steve says so all the time while he’s stuffing his face).  Crazily enough, he likes gardening, too.  There’s something fucking _awesome_ about growing your own vegetables and then using them in your dishes.  Seriously, it’s so gratifying, even if your cucumbers are a little misshapen and your tomatoes come out less than round.  Bucky set it up behind the house, tended the quaint rows of plants like a dutiful parent, and he’s been reaping his harvest with glee that Steve finds endlessly entertaining (and charming).  Next year he’s going to expand out even further, maybe try some fruit, too.  Strawberries, perhaps.  Steve loves strawberries.

For his part, Steve’s been drawing.  They spent more of their funds on that, too.  There’s a nice stationary store in town that carries some art supplies, so they purchased high-quality paper, charcoals, an easel, water colors, oil paints, and brushes.  The whole nine yards.  Steve turned the spare room next to theirs into an art studio.  Bucky comes in all the time to find Steve on his stool, colors smeared on his face and coating his hands as Steve brings to life so many images from their past.  Their old apartment building and church, their school in Brooklyn, SSR’s headquarters in London, Stark Tower and the Avengers complex.  People rendered in stunning, exquisite detail.  Their mothers.  Bucky’s father and sisters.  Kids they knew from the neighborhood.  The Commandos and the Avengers.  Bucky.  So many of Bucky.  Bucky forgot what an amazingly talented artist Steve is.  All the time they spent living with the Avengers, and Steve so rarely had the time (or energy) to draw.  Now he goes at it with a passion.  Bucky looks at the paintings and sketches and it’s like their memories are coming to life before his very eyes.  It’s incredible.

So they’re cooking and gardening and drawing.  They’re also working on an old car they bought in the garage.  Steve’s got a motorcycle taken apart in there, too.  He’s teaching himself to put it back together.  Needless to say, Bucky’s pretty willing to forget the way Steve looked in his Captain America uniform entirely when he gets a view of his boyfriend covered in engine grease in a dirty A-shirt and blue jeans that hang way too low on his hips.  They _may_ have christened that car.  Maybe.  Christened the hood, anyway.  And they may have had sex in numerous other places that they probably shouldn’t have, out in the field around their house and in the little motorboat they take on the pond to go fishing included.  There’s no one around for miles, and the thrill of it…  Well, it takes them back to sneaking around during the war, to keeping their moans and gasps and giggles quiet in their old apartment with its paper-thin walls and nosy neighbors.  It’s fun to remember, to relive the reckless, dangerous thrill of it just a little.

And they get a dog.  A _dog_.  Bucky has vague memories (at least, he thinks they’re memories and not the wishful thinking of a small child) of his family owning a dog in Shelbyville before they moved to New York in 1922.  They would have had to give it away if that was true.  The second he spotted the box of puppies outside the supermarket a few months after he and Steve settled down, he was sold.  Unsurprisingly they named her Brooklyn.  She’s some kind of lab mix that quickly grew from a tiny, cute darling into a slobbering, fluffy monster.  They both love her to death, even if she sheds like crazy and takes up most their bed at night.  Having a dog to love, to pet and play with and cuddle with and run with, does them a world of good.  Sam says some clinical nonsense about how pets are good therapy for troubled war vets when they tell him about it, and they know he’s right, but they prefer to think it’s magic.  

All in all, this life they have now with its quiet domesticity…  It’s a good life.  It took a little getting used to, for sure.  Being away from the Avengers, from the public eye, from the danger and stress and chaos of their old world, admittedly caused some withdrawal for them both.  And the nightmares aren’t entirely gone.  They both have their moments.  Still.  But the other is always there to pull the one who’s hurting back, to listen and kiss and anchor.  Without a doubt they’re okay.  They’re better than okay.  They’re _happy._

“Buck?”

“Yeah?”

Bucky leans around the side of the stove just as Steve comes into the kitchen.  He’s dressed in jeans and a gray t-shirt that’s got a hole in the bottom of it and smudges of charcoal down the side.  And he beams when he sees Bucky stirring a skillet full of cream sauce and vegetables.  “Oh, nice.  You’re making this again?”

“Yeah.”

“Same recipe?”

“Tweaking it a little,” Bucky answers, crinkling the handful of fresh herbs he has into his pan.

“Dunno if it can get better,” Steve says.  He comes around behind Bucky to enfold him in his arms.  Brooklyn’s sitting at their feet, tail wagging, panting and watching happily as Steve presses kisses into Bucky’s neck, pulling his red tank top to the side to get at the nape where he playfully scrapes his teeth.

Bucky swats at him.  “Says he who used to like my ma’s haggis.”

Steve laughs.  Then he pulls away and goes to the fridge and downs an entire carton of milk in about three huge gulps.  Bucky’s caught between being ridiculously turned on by how he looks sucking it down and annoyed that he puts the empty carton back when he’s done.  Steve wipes the back of his hand over his mouth.  “I was gonna take the dog for a walk before dinner.  Is there enough time?”

Bucky checks his pot of boiling pasta.  “Yeah.  Not for a marathon, though.”

“Yep.  Back in a bit.”  Brooklyn gets all excited the second Steve gets her leash, and Bucky can hear the two of them in the hallway outside, the dog whining and Steve talking to her in an excited, ridiculous voice.  It’s a side of Steve he really hasn’t seen before, and he decided about two seconds into having the puppy that he likes it.

The screen door opens and rattles shut, and the house goes quiet.  Bucky goes back to his cooking, tasting his sauce and trying to decide if it needs more salt.  He settles on yes, sprinkles some more in with his real hand (the metal one doesn’t have the sensory input to manage something that delicate), and stirs.  Not more than a few minutes later, the door opens and closes again.  Bucky goes to get a couple plates from the cabinet.  “Steve?” he calls.

“Not exactly,” comes a familiar but surprising voice.  Stark comes down the hallway, rapping on the wall next to the kitchen.  “Knock knock.”

Bucky frowns in confusion.  “Thought you weren’t coming till next week?”

Stark’s looking around.  It’s the first time he’s been here, the first time they’ve seen him (aside from on TV) for a year.  He looks good.  Blue blazer over a gray shirt that says MIT.  Nice black jeans.  He’s got sunglasses on that seem like more than simple shades, probably outfitted with some crazy, expensive tech.  His goatee is as neatly trimmed as ever, his hair perfectly coifed into neat spikes without looking overly gelled.  “Sorry to drop in.  My schedule got switched around.  Holy fuck, are you _cooking?_ ”

Bucky’s cheeks burn in shame and he’s yanking his apron off in record time.  “Yes.”

“This is…”  Stark comes into the kitchen, his jaw pretty fantastically on the floor.  “…freakishly domestic.  When Wilson told me you guys bought a house, I didn’t think it’d be…”

“A house?” Bucky asks, none too pleased with being caught this way (or Stark’s intimation that it’s something to be embarrassed about).

Stark turns to him and takes his sunglasses off.  “Yeah, basically.  I mean, it has _wallpaper_ for Christ’s sake.  With roosters on it.”  He shakes his head.  “Guess I pictured you guys would have a bunker full of guns and knives and a gramophone or something.”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“No, no.”  Stark appraises the kitchen again with its plain country décor and simple furnishings.  “It’s…  It’s nice.”  He quirks a grin.  “Kinda trippy, though.  Rogers was the one who told me he didn’t want the simple life anymore.  The guy who wanted family and stability went into the ice, he said, and someone else came out.  And I told him I’d buy Pepper a farm.”  The grin turns rueful.  “Funny how it turns out.  Where is he, anyway?”

“Walking the dog.”

Stark practically does a double-take.  “You guys have a _dog?_   Now I know this is some alternate reality.  I landed in the _Twilight Zone._ ”  Bucky shrugs.  “And I assume he’s responsible for that.”  Stark gestures at Bucky’s left arm.

Bucky smiles weakly as he lifts his shoulder again to see the star.  “Yeah.  Took a while to find paint that would stay.”  Right after moving here, Steve made it a goal to change the Soviet mark on Bucky’s arm to something they could both get behind.  It was a lasting reminder of what HYDRA did to him, one they wanted to forget.  Now it’s a mixture of _both_ their symbols, the Winter Soldier’s red star surrounded by neat blue, white, and red circles that form Captain America’s shield.  Stark stares more, and Bucky flushes with embarrassment because even he has to admit it’s a little sappy and probably stupid, but he’s really proud of it.

“Cute,” Stark finally says, and Bucky can’t figure out if he really thinks that ( _not_ likely) or is being an ass ( _way more likely_ ).  Even after all this, Stark still puts him on edge.  The tension in the air wins out over the sarcasm, and Stark exhales slowly.  “How’s he doing, anyway?”

“He’s doin’ fine.”

“Yeah?  With the PTSD?”  Stark grins but it’s tempered with understanding.  “He get cured?”

Bucky shakes his head and stirs his sauce.  “You don’t get cured.”  Tony’s grin saddens with understanding.  He knows all too well.  “But he’s seeing someone here.  So am I.  It’s helping a lot.”

“How does that work?  Don’t your shrinks figure out they’re treating Captain America and the Winter Soldier?”

“Don’t have to lie too much about the war vet thing,” Bucky explains.  He turns to take his boiling pot and strain his pasta into the sink.  For a second, it’s too steamy and noisy to say anything.  Setting the pot to the counter, he glances over his shoulder at the other man.  “Say you saw action.  Did things you ain’t too proud of.  Saw people you love get hurt.  Hurt ’em yourself against your will.  People can understand without the details.  And it helps to talk, even in generalities.”

Stark nods gently.  “Yeah.  Yeah, it does.”

“So we do that.  And we just…”  He looks outside through the kitchen window, to the expanse of fields with their rolling green grasses and the copses of trees not too far away.  “Live and breathe, I guess.  Enjoy the peace and quiet.  Retirement’s been good to him.”  _Good to us both._

“He was strong enough to quit cold turkey,” Stark comments.  He pulls out a chair at the kitchen table, the wooden legs scrapping loudly over the linoleum floor.  He sits.  “Wish I could manage it sometimes.”

Bucky doesn’t know how to read that.  “Yeah?  You’re thinking about getting out, too?”

“No.”  Stark’s answer comes quickly, and an even bigger, more rueful smile takes his face.  “I’m good with it.”

“So you’re doing okay.”

“Yeah, I’m doing well.  The team’s doing well.”  Bucky knows that.  They talk to Sam regularly.  Every once in a while, Romanoff contacts them as well, always with stories and well wishes that one would never expect from Black Widow.  And the media still tracks the Avengers like crazy.  There have been a few times since the Accords were signed that the team has butted heads with the big wigs calling the shots at the UN, but the agreement seems to be going well.  No collateral damage of late.  But, then, there haven’t been any major world-ending events either.  The peace is probably tenuous, possibly a fallacy, but it’s nice to have.  “We’re all fine.  Kicking ass and taking names.”

Bucky nods.  “Good.  That’s good to know.  Steve feels guilty sometimes about stepping down.  Feels like he abandoned his post or some bullshit.”

“Guilty enough to come back?”  That’s said evenly, nonchalantly, like Stark doesn’t care about the answer at all when it’s completely obvious he does.

Bucky presses his lips together and shakes his head.  “Don’t think so.  Like I said, retirement suits him.”  Stark frowns a little.  “Besides, you know he’d never sign the Accords.”

Stark cocks an eyebrow.  “Yeah, I doubt he would.  And that’s okay.  It’s working for now.”  It’s not clear if he’s talking about the state of the team or the Accords themselves.  Maybe they’re not mutually exclusive.  “Probably best to have at least one of us not tied to them.  Just in case.”  He grins again, but it’s not entirely comfortable.  Bucky’s not sure how to read that, either.  Stark’s moving on a second later anyway.  “No, no.  The team’s great.  The only thing he needs to feel guilty about is giving Wilson that damn shield. The guy’s still fanboying continually, walking freaking cloud nine and making the rest of us look terrible.  If I have to hear one more time about how he’s carrying on the legacy, I think I might barf.  Tell Steve he owes me for forever for putting up with it.”

Bucky can’t hold back a laugh.  He’s seen Sam in action in his spiffy new Captain America suit, flying and slinging the shield at once.  It’s a little weird at first, but Sam’s carrying on that legacy with honor (and a style all his own).  “I’ll be sure to tell him.  Although you can tell him yourself if you want to hang around for a bit.  He should be right back.  And you’re, uh… welcome to stay for dinner.  If you like.”

Stark appears uncomfortable, eyes darting to the kitchen’s exit.  Bucky doesn’t know if it’s because he asked him to stay and he doesn’t want to or because he’d like to but can’t.  “No, I should be going.  Got places to be.  A team to run and all that.”  He stands again.  “What was it you guys wanted to give me?”

“Oh.  Oh, right.”  Bucky almost forgot about that with Stark’s impromptu appearance.  “Hold on.”  He heads out into the living room, to the bag they put by the desk there after their last trip into town.  Fishing out what he needs from inside, he returns to the kitchen and offers it to Stark.

Stark’s eyes narrow.  “You have got to be shitting me.  A _flip_ phone?”

“Steve thought you’d get a kick out of it.”

The futurist takes it, examining it like it’s some sort of artifact from ancient times.  “Where the hell did you even find one of these?” he mumbles.  He opens it.  “Wow.  It actually turns on.”

“Yep.  And it’s for you to call us, in case you need to,” Bucky explains.

Stark squints at him.  “I can call you here.”

“In case we’re not here.”

“You’re going somewhere?”

“Not necessarily.”

“But maybe.”

“Yeah, maybe.  Maybe we’ll decide to go someplace new or do something else.  Maybe we’ll get bored here.  I don’t know.”  Bucky shrugs.  “Perk about retiring at the ripe old age of one hundred.”  Now he grins broadly.  “Sky’s the limit.”

Stark actually smiles back.  “Yeah, it is.”

“This way if you need us, if you need him…  He’ll be there.”

For a long moment, Stark studies the phone.  A whole gamut of emotions works its way over his face, but the last and strongest of them all is appreciation.  Gratitude.  He sweeps his thumb over the front of the device and looks up at Bucky.  “Tell him thanks.”

“Sure,” Bucky says.

The silence comes back.  It’s uncomfortable again.  Stark slides the phone into his pocket and sighs.  “I should go.  Leave you to your dinner.  Smells delicious, by the way.”

“Thanks,” Bucky says uncertainly.

“Enjoy, uh, the normalcy.”  Stark turns to leave.

And suddenly Bucky’s following him.  “Wait.”

Stark turns in the hallway, regarding him warily.  He’s obviously feeling vulnerable, raw with his emotions maybe, and Bucky wonders if he should say anything at all.  He has to, though.  For them both, he has to.  “I’m…  I’m sorry.  I’m so, so sorry.  About your…  About your parents.”  He forces himself to hold Stark’s gaze no matter how it hurts.  “God, I’m sorry.  And I know it doesn’t mean much, but I remember them.  I remember killing them.  It haunts me, haunts me so much more than all of the others.  It always will.  I remember them, and I’ll _never_ forget.”

Stark stares.  Bucky’s worried he won’t accept this, won’t even hear it.  He has every right to ignore it completely and leave Bucky hanging with no absolution.

But he doesn’t.  He nods.  “Thank you.”

It’s probably the best Bucky will ever get to acceptance.  “You’re welcome.”

And this one moment is probably the closest the two of them will ever come to any sort of understanding.  It’s not much, maybe not enough in the long run, but it’s okay right now.

The silence gets uncomfortable again.  This ache inside Bucky finally stops throbbing.  “Take care of the world, okay, Stark?” he says with a hopeful note in his voice.

Stark puts his sunglasses back on and takes his car keys out of the pocket of his blazer.  “Take care of Steve, Barnes.”  With that, he’s gone.

A little while later, Steve’s back.  He unhooks Brooklyn’s leash, and she excitedly plods over to Bucky to lick his face when Bucky crouches to greet her.  Steve takes his sweat-stained baseball cap and his Aviators off.  “Was someone here?  Thought I heard a car going down the driveway a few minutes ago.”

“Tony.”  Bucky threads his fingers through Brooklyn’s yellow fur and hugs her close.  He feels a little shaken by it all, but it’s alright.  It’s alright.

Steve watches him.  “Early, huh?  Did you give him the phone?”

“Yeah.”

“Did he laugh?”

“Eh.”

“Are…  Are you okay?”

Bucky stands and leans over to kiss him.  “It’s nothin’.  Just… made our peace, that’s all.”

They sit down to dinner and load their plates with pasta primavera and dinner rolls and fresh salad.  Bucky thinks his modifications to the recipe have improved it.  Steve agrees.  They talk about what Stark said about the team, how nice it is that things are going so well.  In short order, all the food is gone and their glasses of iced tea are empty.  Side by side they do the dishes.  Steve washes and Bucky dries.  When everything’s put away and the kitchen’s immaculate, they go outside with the dog and head to the pond.

The sun’s setting.  The sky’s a deep purplish blue to the east and a brilliant palette of burning yellows and oranges to the east.  Long shadows stretch from the willow tree by the little lake, dusk turning everything a pleasant, hazy gray.  The grasses smell sweet, and the reeds quiver with the slightest touch of breeze.  Crickets chirp their evening symphony.  It’s picturesque, not something either of them have ever really seen before coming here.  Not something they ever thought they’d get to see.

They sit on the little ramshackle dock and dangle their feet in the warm water.  Steve throws Brooklyn’s tennis ball out into the lake, and the dog jumps in to fetch it, splashing and swimming happily.  She’s getting them both wet when she comes back to drop the ball for another round, but they don’t really care.  It’s too nice to care about anything.

Steve heaves the ball again, throwing it further than before, and leans back on his arms while Brooklyn jumps off the dock.  “Pretty tonight,” he comments, looking over to the other side of the pond and the quiet shadows along the other shore.

Bucky’s looking at him.  Always looking at him.  “Yeah.” _Beautiful._

“Talking about Tony got me thinking.”

“That’s never good,” Bucky teases.

“Ha ha.”  Bucky grins, and Steve grins back, but he’s not relaxed, at least not completely.  Bucky watches him sigh after a quiet moment or two.  He seems like he’s pondering something, eyes distant and fixed on the water.  “You ever miss it?” he finally asks, glancing out of the corner of his eye.

“Miss what?”

“I don’t know.  Being a soldier.”

“No, I do not miss being the Winter Soldier,” Bucky says dryly.

Steve mock glares.  “You know what I mean.  Fighting.  Doing something good.”

Bucky thinks about it.  He has to be honest.  “Sometimes.”  He does miss the rush of battle, the power of it thrumming in his blood, the sense of purpose and honor and duty he got from standing against evil.  It was a brief time during his tenure as a soldier that he felt that way, much shorter than it was for Steve.  If he longs for it, Steve must even more so.

Steve’s drifted in his thoughts.  He doesn’t look distressed at all.  Melancholic, maybe.  Maudlin.  Bucky smiles softly, nudging Steve’s shoulder to jostle him free.  “Is this you sayin’ you wanna go back?”

Steve chuckles.  “And steal Sam’s thunder?  Nah.  That’s mean.”

“Could get a different name.  Different uniform.”

Dark eyebrows arch over amused blue eyes.  “What?  Can’t be Captain America anymore.  So I’m… Nomad?  Or something?”

For some reason, a ridiculous, black spandex outfit that cuts in a ‘V’ down Steve’s sculpted chest flashes through Bucky’s mind, and he doesn’t know whether to find it sexy or horrifying.  “Or something.”

“I don’t exactly stand for truth, justice, and the American way.”  _Yeah, you do._ Another sigh, and Steve’s squinting as he looks over the lake again.  “Besides, the others have it covered.”

“They definitely do.”

Now Steve knocks into him.  “Guess I wouldn’t mind forming another team, though.  You know, in case the Accords hold the Avengers back or in case Tony calls.  Just in case.”

Brooklyn comes thundering back onto the dock, soaking them both when she shakes before dropping the soaked tennis ball in Bucky’s lap.  Bucky rolls his eyes and tosses it out into the pond again where it lands with a soft _plop_.  The dog goes careening after it.  “Knew I shouldn’t have told you about that.”

Steve’s not listening.  “Secret Avengers.”  He nods to himself with a smirk.

Bucky shakes his head.  “Not today.”

“No, definitely not,” Steve agrees.  Brooklyn’s done swimming now, and she plops down behind them, tongue lolling and flapping as she pants.  Uncaring about how wet she is, Steve reaches back to pet her.  “Someday maybe.”

“Maybe.”

“And maybe we’ll go somewhere new, too,” Steve muses.  He beams.  “But not today.  Today’s perfect just the way it is.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.  I’m really lucky.  Lucky to have you.  Lucky to be here with you.”

It takes Bucky aback like it always does.  Like it always has.  That he and Steve found each other back when they were kids, back during the war, after HYDRA fell.  That Steve is his and he is Steve’s.  Despite war and pain and separation, despite the ice and the long winters they both have known, despite everything through which they’ve suffered, all their trials, their tribulations…  They’re together.  And there’s so much love and trust in Steve’s eyes, so much open honesty, that Bucky can’t take it, can’t hardly stand the way his heart’s swelling in his chest, so he grins and blushes and looks away.

The quiet returns.  They breathe deeply of the night air and take in the splendor of the summer evening all around them.  Shadows lengthen as the sun finally dips below the horizon.  The pond’s surface as flawless and smooth as glass, and the first stars are coming out.  “You’re still doing something good, you know,” Bucky eventually says, leaning closer.

Steve turns to him.  “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”  Bucky leans his head on Steve’s shoulder.  “You’re reminding me every day that life goes on.”

Softly Steve chuckles, a low, comforting rumble that makes Bucky smile and sleepily close his eyes.  “Yeah, it does,” he says, wrapping his arm around Bucky’s back.  He kisses his head.  “It sure does.”

It does.  It stretches all around them, quiet and sweetly promising.

Peaceful.

**THE END**

**Author's Note:**

> _Dona nobis pacem _\- Latin for "grant us peace". From the _Agnus Dei_ liturgy during Mass. Also sung as a choral round.__


End file.
